Reach My Eyes
by thelittleboffin
Summary: Rugby captain John and troubled teen Sherlock are Youtubers who make their way to fame and find love along the way. Rated M for abuse, language, and sex.
1. What's On Your Face?

Three.

Two.

One.

John Watson reached for the button on his small camcorder and sat back in his cheap black chair, spinning in a circle and turning to smile warmly at the little red light. "What's going on everybody," He chuckled, ocean blue eyes brightening as he bared his teeth in a fond grin, "my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face." He spun in his chair once more and threw his feet onto the top of his desk, running a hand through his ashy blonde hair and sighing, "Math class."

He let out a laugh and lunged forward, dropping his legs and resting his crossed arms on the table. "Everyone instantly groans at the very mention of the thing; amazing isn't it?" He bit his lip and shrugged, "I genuinely don't have any personal vendettas towards the subject, but it says a lot about me when I say that my favorite part of the class is having the calculator in front of me and slowly, painfully, discovering what each and every button can do."

He giggled his high pitched, infamous giggle and shook his head in amusement, "Honestly, I'll turn to my mate Mike and say, 'Watch this,' and it just blows his fucking mind."

John lifted his hands animatedly as he spoke, throwing them in the air to relay his irritation, his confusion, his merriment. He moved on further into his video talking about how he presses 'Clear' on his calculator fifteen thousand times before he's satisfied, how when teachers ask you to copy down notes they always stand in front of the board they're on, and about how on the first day of class you have a whole pack of pencil and erasers and by the end of the year you're left with one you arbitrarily found on the floor. He joked and brought up how algebra is only important when you're a pirate - since finding X is your main priority. He explained the fact that he has no idea how to pay taxes or raise a family but not to worry because he can find the area of a triangle and the circumference of a circle.

John Watson was relatable.

John Watson was brutally honest and utterly unabashed by the things that made him human. He was John Watson and so that's who he portrayed in front of his quaint, thirty pound camcorder. He felt no shame - only a need to express. And so he did. All in the span of a fifteen minute recording, which he ended with a smile and a wink, giggling his signature giggle and signing off by stating, "All the love to every single one of you. Catch you later."

And with that, he was ending the recording, loading the file onto his computer, editing, shortening, adding and subtracting, and exporting until he reached his utmost satisfaction.

And, with a bright smile, he uploaded his video to YouTube, the, currently, biggest and best way to have others hear you, listen to your words, reach your eyes and take in your line of sight - it was the way to connect in a day and age that relied so heavily on the modern ways of technology.

John Watson smiled as he left the video to upload, shaking with excitement and hoping his ten thousand and thirty three subscribers were doing the same.

It was more than a hobby - making people smile, laugh, giggle; it had become more of a mission, something he pursued with great determination, something he never wanted to put an end to.

He sighed happily as a check mark turned green and he added yet another daily video to his channel, grinning as he stared at the small, red rectangle that portrayed, in a large, white font: 10,033. Never did he think so many people would find him, him, interesting.

He was John Watson, seventeen-year-old rugby captain attending Baker High; below average height, average weight, blue eyes, blonde hair, a mostly B student with dreams of becoming a doctor, and a fan of Bond films - entirely and utterly unexceptional. Yet, somehow, 10,033 people didn't think so.

With a fond smile, he moved the little arrow on the screen with his mouse to the search bar, pecking the keyboard in his usual manner and typing, _'theballetbee.'_

Now, this guy was interesting. Violin and ballet fanatic, talented at both, and utterly, frustratingly, anonymous. Yet, only 4,900 subscribers.  
It bewildered John. One of these days he was going to give the unnamed virtuoso a shoutout.

John bit his lip in concentration and scrolled through the Youtuber's playlist, humming and smiling softly as he chose his very favorite cover by the mysterious violinist, one he'd played himself and, in turn, videoed his very own dance performance to.

John clicked it and watched as the screen remained black but for a few white words that fluttered across the screen:

 _'Who Wants to Live Forever': Queen (Instrumental) by theballetbee_

John sighed as he watched the video transition into shades of beige and soft grey, the man, bare chested, dancing across the wood coated studio clad in black tights and pink ballet shoes, his face utterly unreadable, blurred out purposefully with the right amount of skill applied to his editing. John narrowed his eyes, studying the being carefully, watching the stretch of his muscles, the ripple of them beneath the black material. He was a complete stranger with no identifiable qualities apart from a rather decent sized bee tattoo, all realistic and detailed, spanning across the lower half of his back.

John hummed softly and shook his head, sighing and pushing aside his anxiousness and need to discover who this person was and where he came from. The boy's bio on his channel's home page gave nothing away. John had read it time and time again, eyes roving down every word and always trying to make something out of nothing.

He knew the dancer lived in the same general area of the UK as John did, which came as quite a delight, but merely served to boost John's further curiosity. He wasn't at the point of checking every ballet studio across central London yet, but he was close - and for that, he reprimanded himself. The boy must have chosen to go into the world of YouTube anonymously and John should respect that.

So why did he find it so hard to?

John shook his head at himself and huffed, turning up the volume of the video and sighing, grabbing his backpack and pulling out his math homework, scribbling nonsense the best he could into the answer blanks of questions, all the while swaying to the soft melody of a carefully practiced violin and spotting the blur of black and pink in his peripheral vision, dancing with grace across his computer screen.

* * *

The curly haired boy lugged his belongings into the studio, glaring forwards while he walked past the dozens of ballerinas eyeing him suspiciously as they left their afternoon class. He rolled his eyes and pushed past them and into the slowly emptying ballet studio, slipping off his tennis shoes - old and tattered blue converse - dropping his duffle bag and beginning to stretch, extending his arms upwards and downwards and spreading his legs in a straddle like position, sitting gracefully onto the wooden floor. He leaned over his thighs, grabbed his toes and pulled them towards himself, huffing out a breath as the movements pulled at his muscles, the sensation both relieving and painful.

"Sherlock!"

He lifted his head and met the approaching eyes of a small, rather petite elderly lady, dressed elegant and classy, blending in with the atmospheric nature of the studio.

"Ms. Hudson," Sherlock smiled tiredly, humming and standing once more, stepping forward as the woman advanced on him, arms extended fondly as she reached out to pull Sherlock into a hug.

"Back again I see," She chuckled, drawing back to look him in the eyes, her warm smile gracing the soft, round curves of her kind expression, "I don't see why you won't just join my class."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly, eager to avoid that particular subject and scoffed, choosing to roll his eyes instead and step away from her, turning towards his bag and pulling out his ballet slippers, "Dull."

The old woman laughed and shook her head, tapping him lightly on the shoulder and sauntering daintily towards the studio exit, "You always say that."

Sherlock chuckled and smirked a little at her, arching a brow knowingly and gesturing sluggishly with his hands, "Then it must be true."

Ms. Hudson snorted and sighed joyfully, reaching for the exit and turning back to, most likely, sneak in another jab at Sherlock's clear distaste for other normal human beings but was instead interrupted by the sharp ding of his mobile. Sherlock unzipped his duffle bag and pulled out the black device, pressing his finger to the screen and biting his lip as a rush of overwhelming fondness consumed him.

 _watsonmyface uploaded: Math Class can Kiss my Ass_

Sherlock snorted softly to himself and shook his head, smiling at the video thumbnail of a warm, tan face sticking his tongue out in utter exhaustion, mathematical symbols of all shapes and sizes surrounding him.

"Your boy again?" Ms. Hudson's voice jolted him out of his mindless gawking and he turned to quickly stare up at her from where he was kneeling beside his bag, blushing pink under her scrutiny. She caught up on his shameful gaze and snickered quietly, shrugging her shoulders and turning to open the exit door, "Stop watching him through a screen when you can just see him in person."

And with a wink, she disappeared out of the studio.

In person? No.

No, Sherlock would stutter and cower and hunch and blubber some stupid excuse about having laundry to do and would disappear in an instant, sprinting far from John Watson's view and into a dark abyss of which he'd never resurface from.  
Or worse: he'd say something he'd later regret, something cold and brutal and rude and deductive and John Watson would never look at him again apart from the occasional glare.

Not that he looks at him now.

Actually, Sherlock's pretty sure John Watson isn't aware of his existence.

But that's okay. Sherlock has a new video everyday to look forward to.

Sherlock glanced down at his phone, swallowing and eyeing the thumbnail once more, admiring John's soft, rather adorable expression, and then shook his head, tucking his mobile back into his duffle bag and sighing.

He'd watch it later.

He pushed the phone aside and grabbed out his dainty tripod and rather cheap, old digital camera, switching it to its proper video feature and huffing as he hooked it to the stand, screwing it tight to the top. He could always ask Mycroft for the money to get a proper, functioning camcorder but that meant emailing his brother and emailing his brother meant a lecture and he did not have the time nor the patience for such a thing. So, he'd make do.

Besides, Mycroft spent enough money on making sure his alcoholic father didn't tarnish the family name.

Rolling his eyes at his inner turmoil, he got to his feet, reaching for the hem of his baggy maroon sweater and lifting it up over his head, standing bare chested in the empty ballet studio, mirrors serving as his walls while he slowly began lacing up his slippers. Once he finished, he simply sat there, unmoving on the wood floor, blankly staring at his reflection - his floppy mop of dark brown curls, his sharp cheekbones and his thin shoulders, his angular collarbone and jutting hipbones - before dropping his eyes back down to his duffle bag and thinking.

It was only fifteen minutes long. He'd just shorten his performance today. No big deal. Ms. Hudson didn't need the room back for another hour yet. He could just watch it and then get right to work on his own video.

Yes.

Sherlock huffed and inwardly swore at his impulsiveness, reaching back into his duffle and pulling out his phone, scooting up with his back against the mirror and hunching over his knees, propping the video up and watching intently as it began to play.

 _"What's going on everybody, my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face."_


	2. Off Limits

"I laughed my arse off mate," Mike chuckled, slapping John on the back, and beaming brightly at him as he strode across the small space, turning to hunch over his shoes.

John smiled and nodded, looking down and sighing a little as he glared internally at his rugby gear laid out before him on one of the wooden seats lining the locker room.

"Thanks Mike," He huffed and shrugged slightly, "It's just shit I'm not going to be able to upload as much," John shoved his foot into one of his cleats and began lacing up the strings attached, "what with Rugby season starting up again."

His best mate let out a hearty laugh and shook his head, beaming warmly and rolling his eyes just slightly at John's sour expression, "Lad, your fans will understand."

John chuckled breathlessly at the term because good god, he did have fans didn't he? Actual fans who actually loved and followed and supported him. "I guess," He responded, slipping his jumper off and reaching for his skin tight, workout tank, "I just don't wanna let anyone down, you know?"

With a sigh, he pulled on the shirt and turned fully to Mike, who had finally pulled his shoes on and was currently jumping up and down in place, stretching both arms, swinging them forwards and backwards, and exhaling deeply.

"John," He breathed and halted his small warm up, "You won't, mate."

John forced a small smile and sighed, nodding in finality and packing up his bag, forcing his school clothes in with his books, and turning to shove it all into his blue locker, only to jolt forwards as the loud click of the door opening and several footsteps, sounding hurried and impatient, emanated garishly around the near vacant locker room.

The rugby captain turned to witness a lanky, thin being sauntering quickly through the door, long legs striding outwards in front of him as he hugged a duffle bag to his chest. The dark haired boy glanced up from the mobile phone in his hand and froze, eyes widening as he came face to face with John, what looked like silver meeting ocean blue. John jerked back lightly in surprise and swallowed thickly, his body fluttering at the sight of the boy in front of him. All sharp edges and angular curves, high cheekbones and a perfectly sculpted visage, eyes like galaxies and seas combined, lips parted to perfection and - John really needed to stop.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He'd heard of the kid - oh yes, he'd heard of him; he'd heard about how he could make a fool of someone in three seconds, expose their darkest secrets, point out every flaw that ever came to be throughout the whole of their depressingly short life.

But _seen_ him? Hardly. The boy was like a ghost - one minute he was floating past you in the hallway and the next he was gone, gone as though he'd simply vanished through one of the corridor walls. This, right here, was a rare moment in John Watson's life.

"Oh, I -" He began and John arched a brow, admiring the deep nature of his baritone, rumbling thickly with every syllable, "I didn't know anyone was -" The boy paused, swallowed, glanced down at his hands, one fiddling with a corner of his phone case, and shook his head, turning around swiftly, obviously in pursuit of the exit.

"No, no," John smiled a friendly smile, and stepped forward, shrugging and grabbing his water bottle and gear, "We were just leaving."

Sherlock blinked at him, his eyes narrowing as though he were assessing the situation, and then nodded, heaving his duffle bag up further and hiding his face shyly, seemingly suddenly fixated on a specific spot on the floor.

John smiled softly to himself and gestured to Mike with a flick of his head toward the exit, sauntering lightly over to and passed the shy boy, curls falling atop his forehead and the back of his pale neck as he stared blankly at the ground, chewing on his bottom lip. John lugged his rugby bag further over his shoulder and reached for the handle of the door, only to freeze in his steps as that deep voice sounded again, low and small and quiet.

"I," Sherlock cleared his throat, and turned, facing John but still watching the locker room tiles, "I like your videos."

Both of John's eyebrows rose sky high, blinking in surprise at the dark haired being, standing timidly in John's midst, looking so very nervous, worriedly fidgeting as he mumbled his admission to John. The ashy blonde chuckled aloud, beaming brightly at the thin figure a little in front of him, blushing slightly at the compliment and bobbing his head gratefully. "Thank you, that's," He paused, scoffing softly and joyfully, "actually really amazing to hear."

Sherlock nodded once, swallowed, looked away and then turned around, striding off with the long length of his spindly legs and heading around the corner of the locker room and towards the showers. John bit his lip, grinned and then grabbed the door handle, walking out into the loud cacophony of sounds resounding within the walls of the school gymnasium and smiling to himself.

"That was weird." Mike snorted, catching up to him and walking beside his team captain as they headed out the two doors that served as the entrance to the gym, turning and sauntering in the direction of the large, green field where a few of their team members already sat, stretching.

John glanced at him, eyes narrowed, "What? Why?"

Mike scoffed, and arched a brow, "The school _freak_ just told you he watches your videos."

John scowled down at his feet, choosing to watch their upward motion as he walked rather than the boy next to him, "He doesn't seem like a freak to me."

Mike huffed and shook his head, "That's because he hasn't divulged all of your most sacred secrets yet."

"Okay, so he's smart; that doesn't make him a _freak_."

Mike eyed John suspiciously but shrugged it off, humming to himself and sighing, "Maybe not, but it does make him an arsehole."

John flinched at the insult and sped up, marching a little faster towards his goal, finally reaching the grass and tossing his stuff to the side of the rugby goal, choosing to simply ignore Mike Stamford for the rest of practice.

* * *

Sherlock was both irritated and surprised with himself. Irritated because bloody hell he'd made a complete fool of himself in front of John Watson, _the_ John Watson. And surprised because he'd never thought he would even be able to manage an entire sentence towards the boy without hyperventilating. And John was _nice_ to him. Actually nice. Friendly, polite. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his inner thoughts and stepped out of the locker room shower, grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his nimble form. Who was he kidding? That was just who John Watson was, how he was raised, just another reason why he was number one on nearly every girl's 'date list'. Some guys too, most likely. Though, John had never expressed any interest in that specific gender.

 _Off limits, Holmes_ , he growled to himself.  
 _Completely and utterly off limits, one big bucket of no-no_.

Sherlock shook his head, exasperated with himself and turned to the mirrors, staring at his wet curls and sharp expression.  
John would never go for someone like him anyway. Too exotic. Too unusual. Too freakish.

He sighed and reached into his bag for his change of clothes, yanking out his plain, black sweatpants and baggy white v-neck. He was only going home. No need to dress for any occasions.

He ran slender fingers through his hair and shook out some of the wetness, water droplets flying this way and that as he bent down, tucking his previous clothes, a boring old jumper and skinny jeans, away and grabbing his duffle, hoisting it carefully over his shoulder. He snatched up his phone and tapped the screen.

 _No messages_.

Why would there be? He rolled his eyes at himself and unlocked the device, flipping through his few apps before finding YouTube and hitting it lightly, watching as his channel popped up and the red circle beside the notifications symbol alerted him of several new comments, subscriptions and likes. He smiled softly to himself with inner pride, biting his lip and sighing happily at the new number.

4,910.

Ten new people who enjoyed his artistry.

His latest composition and routine had gotten quite a bit of attention and appreciation, and it made his heart swell to know his hard work was paying off, and, better yet, being admired. With a touch of newfound joy, he slipped his phone into his back pocket and readjusted his duffle bag before heading towards the locker room exit.


	3. Rarity

When John got home that Monday evening, freshly showered, muscles aching, body exasperated beyond belief, he went straight to his room, all navy walls and posters upon posters of his favorite TV shows and movies, and fell onto his small, single bed, staring up at the ceiling blankly and letting out a frustrated sigh. He slipped a hand into his back pocket and yanked out his phone from beneath him, quickly opening up his YouTube subscriptions and sliding the circular images over until he found the one he wanted: the single image of a bee, all scientific and tauntingly anonymous.

He sighed and went to the YouTuber's playlist, tapping _"Compositions Only"_ and hitting shuffle. He reached for his headphones, lain clumsily on the edge of his bedside table, tangled and knotted, and quickly plugged them in. The soft, melancholy quivering of a violin sounded, warming his ears, and he instantly relaxed, letting out a deep much needed breath of relief and humming along quietly.

The boy, of whom went by the name of _theballetbee_ , had uploaded recently; yesterday in fact, the night after John's own video hit the web, successfully as well.

He had listened to it today in French class, and watched it under the discretion of his desk, and fallen utterly, and completely, in love.  
This man: this anonymous, beautiful, talented man would be the absolute death of him.

He shut his eyes, imagining the lean, pale body twirling about with such poise, such grace. He pictured the dark mass of blurred hair atop the boy's head and the unreadable face. He thought of the bee spread out across his back and the effortless way he jumped to his tippy-toes mid-dance. He conjured up all this and more, his mind reeling with shameless imaginings of a mystery boy pulling him to his feet and dancing for him, the pale figure pulling a bent bow across the strings of his violin and serenading him whilst he watched with utmost awe.

A sharp jab to his stomach sent his eyes flying open and his entire body flinging upwards in shock. He came face to face with the amused expression of his older sister, her caramel brown curls thrown up into a messy bun and her entire figure clad in her green work uniform. John sighed, mostly to get his heartbeat back to a normal rhythm, and took out the headphones from his ears, glaring at his sibling for interrupting and letting out a sharp huff, "You scared the shit out of me."

Harriet chuckled, her pale pink lipstick cracking a little and her black eyeliner crinkling as she smirked down at him, shaking her head fondly. "Listening to your boyfriend again?" She quipped, her eyes narrowed suspiciously and the ends of her lips curving upward in amusement.

"Christ, Harry," John blushed, running a hand through his hair and tossing his phone to the side, watching as it hit the far end of his mattress with a thump, "Shut up, will you? I don't even know who he _is_."

Harry sighed and rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and jutting out a hip, "Better start figuring that out then," She winked, leaning against his bed post, "so you can ask him on a date and all."

John tossed a pillow at her, but she expertly maneuvered out of the way.

"I'm not _gay_."

Harry snorted, "So simple-minded."

John arched a brow in confusion, "What?"

"Gay and straight aren't the only two sexualities, John Hamish Watson," She smirked, winking at him and glancing at his phone as if to further exaggerate her point.

John blinked at her, and then scowled, "I'm not a bloody idiot," He snapped, "What do you want anyway?"

She scoffed, "Debatable," but before John could defend himself, she continued, "Mum made an early dinner. She's working late again, and I've got the graveyard shift tonight. You gonna be okay?"

John laughed gently, swinging his legs off the bed and swaying towards his computer, booting it up as he lifted the screen and nodding quickly, "Yeah, 'course. I'll just do homework."

Harry nodded and smiled sneakily, snickering a little to herself as she turned to the door, pulling it open and talking a step out before glancing over her shoulder, "Who am I kiddin? You've got your boyfriend to watch."

John turned and glared at her as he finished pulling his science notebook out of his school bag, watching as she shrugged innocently at him. He snorted fondly and shooed her away with a small flick of his hand, "Go on. Don't you have a job to get to?"

Harriet giggled to herself, high-pitched squeaks that always reminded John of a dog's toy, and closed the door behind her, but not before yelling teasingly out, loud and clear, "Behave yourselves!"

* * *

Sherlock sighed to himself as he crept slowly into the rather large, but almost decrepit, house, closing the rather tall, intimidating front door behind him and sliding his shoes off. He tiptoed across the white, cold tile and headed for the winding staircase eager to get to his room and lock himself away but only managing a few steps before a slurred voice called for him from the living room couch.

He inhaled sharply and shut his eyes, shaking his head at his own faulty discretion and turned around, taking the corner cautiously and swallowing thickly as his uncle came into view, sprawled out on the grey couch in a half buttoned dress shirt and unzipped black trousers.

"Sherl," He scoffed, trying his best to sit up without spilling the expensive scotch in his hand, "You're back late."

Sherlock dropped his eyes to his black sock clad feet, trying his best to ignore his uncle's oncoming scowl.

Siger was right. He was late. But that's what happens when you're eager to film a new video in the school's ballet studio and the walk home takes thirty minutes.  
But he wouldn't dare say a word of that to the face of the man in front of him.

"Yes. It was imperative that I study," He lied subtly, lifting a hand to scratch at the back of his neck nervously, risking a glance up at his uncle, "what with tests coming up and all. I met up with a friend in the library."

Siger let out a loud laugh at that, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock and arching a degrading brown brow, " _Friend?_ You don't have any _friends_." He heaved and grunted until he was on his feet, lifting his hand, of which was grasping tight to his drink, and pointing it accusingly at Sherlock, the ice sloshing about here and there, noisily.

Sherlock swallowed.

He wasn't wrong.

"You lyin' to me, Sherly?" He snapped, icy blue eyes wide with rage as he glared down at his nephew, lifting his glass and taking a long drawn out sip until every last drop was devoured.

Sherlock shook his head and gulped, running a hand through his haphazard curls and looking away, gesturing weakly to the staircase, "No, but I do have homework so if you don't mind -"

"You always think you're so clever don't you, boy," His uncle sneered, smirking a rather malicious smirk and swaying unsteadily over to the small liquor cabinet on display in the bland, brightly colored living room, "Always thinking you can slip one right over my head, ay?" He growled, grabbing out a glass jug of his favorite scotch and helping himself to a refill.

Sherlock winced and looked down at his feet once more. His father's favorite as well. Siger and he had shared a number of things - hobbies, habits, taste in women. They had been close. And then Sherlock's father had died and their special evenings of sitting beside the fire, drinking half a glass had turned into Siger sitting alone, downing the entire bottle.

"No, I just," Sherlock cleared his throat, and huffed, shrugging his shoulders and glancing timidly up at the man pouring his scotch, "I just _really_ need to finish my homework."

Siger glanced over his shoulder at him, took a hearty sip of his drink and hummed, a malicious smirk spreading wide across his face as he began walking towards Sherlock, of whom stood frozen still, swallowing and watching his socked feet with renewed interest.

" _Fine_ ," His uncle spat, a menacing grin altering the lines of his fairly wrinkled expression, before he extended his arm outward, tipping his cup instantly upside down, ice and expensive scotch toppling to the floor with a clink and a splash, "But clean this up first."

Sherlock glared at the man in front of him.

He hated Siger Holmes. He hated him with a burning passion and yet he found himself nodding to his commands, affirming his orders. The punishment would be far worse if he didn't anyways.

Siger Holmes was the Holmes relative gone bad. He was the man in the family that had been far too influenced by grief and loss, and turned to alcohol to cope. Most of Sherlock's distant relatives sympathized for him. _The poor dear lost his brother, the poor lad lost his only sibling, his best friend, his true mate._

Sherlock didn't.

Sherlock had lost his father.

And he had, and _was_ , coping just fine.

* * *

When John pulled his mother's tattered old Toyota into the student parking lot, he caught sight of a lone figure walking slowly along the pavement, somewhat dragging his feet as he sucked on the end of a cigarette.

Sherlock.

Yet again, another rarity.

All long legs clad in black skinny jeans, and thin torso covered in a baggy grey sweatshirt. He smiled softly, admiring the bounce of the brown curls and the sharpness of those unreadable eyes as they focused on the school, seemingly filling to the very top with revulsion and dislike.

John had to agree with the detest in Sherlock's expression. Baker was an interesting school. It was still burdened by cliché - the nerds, the geeks, the punks, the jocks. You chose your bunch and you stuck to them. There was no jumping about or testing the waters. John despised it, well and truly.

There was no room for uniqueness, no room for difference or specialty. And that's why Sherlock was such an outcast. A cruel, cruel thing.

John scoffed and shook his head, grabbing his bag from the passenger seat, yanking it over his shoulder and shutting the door behind him as he stepped out of the car. He clicked lock and took a deep breath, watching as Sherlock stopped outside the school gates, just slightly hidden from view, to finish his cigarette, nimble fingers shaking slightly from the bitter cold of morning.

With courage he wasn't aware he had, John sauntered over, putting on a small smile and making his way up and over to the side of the tall brunette, "I didn't know you smoked."

The curly-haired genius jolted in place, nearly dropping his cigarette as he whirled around to face John, eyes wide as they glanced once over the entirety of John's body and then moved back up to his line of sight, frozen there, brows above narrowed in confusion, and partial disbelief.

"Sorry," John chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly, "Didn't mean to scare you."

Sherlock blinked, swallowed and then seemed to get a hold of himself, wrapping his arms around his torso shyly and shrugging a shoulder, "You didn't _scare_ me." The brunette cleared his throat, as if trying to cover up the hoarseness of his deep tone, and lifted the cigarette timidly back up to those plush, pink lips, "I was just a little surprised."

John let out a soft, warm-hearted chuckle, adjusting his hold on the strap of his red backpack and sticking his other hand in his jeans' pocket, "Some might say that's almost the same thing."

Sherlock took a drag and then dropped the cigarette to the floor, stomping on it with the heel of his toe before glancing quickly up at John, expression guarded but almost fond, "They'd be idiots."

John let out one hearty laugh before smiling widely at Sherlock and shrugging the shoulder his school bag hung from, "Yeah, I guess so, huh?"

Right then and there, John saw the corner of Sherlock's lips lift up for a short moment in amusement before dropping once more as he fixed his attention to the floor, swallowing nervously and kicking a stray rock in utter silence. John watched him carefully for a moment, realizing he should probably say something, considering _he_ was the one who'd approached _him_ , but found he couldn't think of anything to say.

He'd never really spoken to Sherlock aside from a quick 'excuse me' in the halls or the interaction yesterday. He wasn't exactly sure how. Sherlock was so _remote_ , so _quiet_ , so _discrete_. John was afraid he might say something wrong and be forever despised by the genius' mind.

"Um," he began, grunting to clear the awkward bubble in his throat, and biting his lip a little nervously, "Look, I just wanted to say thanks, you know? For the compliment. Yesterday." He smiled wearily at Sherlock's downturned head and then watched, oddly fascinated, as it lifted in curiosity, those icy blue - silver, green, gold? - eyes dropping onto John's own and widening slightly.

"What do you mean?" That deep baritone asked and John instantly shrugged once more, feeling far more nervous now than before.

Since when did John _Watson_ get _nervous_?

"I just mean for the compliment," He responded softly, smiling a lopsided grin, "on my videos."

Sherlock blinked and then looked down once more, shaking his head and scoffing sharply, "It was simply the honest truth. I quite enjoy them."

John, much to his own embarrassment, found himself blushing, a bright, crimson red, and was genuinely glad Sherlock wasn't currently looking at him with those scrutinizing eyes.

" _Well_ ," John laughed shyly, and chewed on his bottom lip, readjusting his backpack for what felt like the hundredth time and admiring the top of Sherlock's curly head, "it means a lot, you know?"

Sherlock looked up again at that, eyes widening softly before narrowing, as though they were readily observing John for any sign of insincerity. The brown haired boy swallowed, opened his mouth, furrowed his brows, closed his mouth, and then opened it again, only to mumble out, "Even from me?"

John blinked in confusion and scoffed softly, "' _Course_."

The boy in front of him quickly cleared his throat and avoided John's eyes, grabbing the strap of his bag and glancing towards the school, taking a step towards it and nervously shifting his attention indirectly at John. "I," He murmured thickly, in that deep baritone, "I should head to class."

John sighed inwardly, part of him itching to grab Sherlock's arm and ask him to stay and chat, or sit with him at lunch, or next to him in their shared English class. But instead, he merely nodded, shot the boy a short, " _See ya,_ " and a smile, and watched as the lean figure sauntered away.


	4. Underneath

"What's going on everybody, my name is John Watson, and _this_ ," He paused for effect, smirking directly at the camera, "is what's on my face." With a soft laugh and a shake of his head, he swallowed thickly and began. "Update on my life? Well. Rugby is a pain in the arse, like always. Remember how in the early days of public schooling you were told," He put on a fake, uppity accent, "not to run in the halls, not to touch other students, and, most importantly, not to use foul language?"

John scoffed and spun in his chair, lifting his hands up towards the ceiling and shrugging his shoulders, "Well, coaches? They don't give two blinking fucks."

With a rather dark grin, he pointed at the camera lens and arched a brow, "You know what they call our rugby coach behind his back?"

John let out a snort, "Coach the Roach. Fitting, ay?" He leaned back and lifted his hands, "For those of you who don't know 'im, it's pretty darn accurate. He smells bad, he give you this weird squinty-eyed face when you bugger something up, and," John snapped for emphasis, "He scurries around like he owns a bloody teleportation device or something. The man has a fucking TARDIS, I'm telling you!"

The YouTuber barked a laugh and glared at the wall behind where his tripod and camera sat, "What I'm trying to say is that the man creeps up on you. You're alone one minute, and then bam; you're getting yelled at by a short man with a caterpillar below his nose and bad breath.

* * *

Sherlock sighed down at the phone in his hand, headphones tucked into his ears in an act to shoo any unwanted visitors away, and hooded sweatshirt wrapped around him for good measure. Sat far in the very back of the cafeteria, at a round corner table, Sherlock smiled down at his notebook, tapping at the list he'd scribbled out, mindlessly atop the clean, white paper. He'd titled one side of the page, 'Songs I Must Learn,' and, with a dividing line between the very middle of the composition book, labeled the other side, 'Songs I Must Dance to.'

It was how he stayed organized – listing and graphing and charting and planning and sketching and devising all the next video ideas, all the notes for new songs, both musical and textual, all the different movements to perform across the shiny, wood floor of the school's empty studio. And he never let anyone in, never let anyone read it nor even sneak a glance.

There was a reason – well, several – of course, why he ran _theballetbee_ as an anonymous composer and dancer. Because people in reality, in the real world, outside of the virtual cyberspace that made up YouTube, or Twitter, or the Internet in general, despised him. He was not likeable and never had been. To everyone who knew him, he was an egotistic, self-centered, arrogantly anti-social weirdo. He was fine with that.

To those who subscribed to his channel – to them? To them, he was the mysterious, graceful, musically talented stranger – he was an enigma, a puzzle never to be solved, a mask never to be removed. And he liked it that way – so that's the way it would stay. No one would ever know. No one.

He grabbed for his phone, tapping next on the screen and listening as his phone shuffled the online playlist and began a new melody, one he'd never heard before. It was French; that much was clear by the obvious accordion calling out alongside a soothing and rather melancholy piano. He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the screen. 'Ballet of the Little Café,' it read, and 'Brian Crain,' in text beneath it. Oh _yes_. He'd definitely be dancing to this.

He reached for his pen, uncapping it and quickly scribbling the song's name into the appropriate column, smiling softly to himself, rather proud to have found such an invigoratingly new sound. It was because of this, and the fact that his phone's volume was turned to max, that he didn't hear the name calling out for him, only finally realizing and looking up unnaturally quick when the person who was in need of his attention tapped lightly on his shoulder.

When he spotted blue eyes and golden hair, he slammed his notebook shut, accidentally dropped his black pen, and scrambled for his phone, shoving it into his pocket and swallowing thickly as he yanked out his headphones, flailing idiotically. A sharp, joyful laugh, that Sherlock frankly found himself craving to hear more of, emanated out of the lips – those beautiful lips – of the rugby captain before him, and Sherlock looked up, embarrassment painting his cheeks a bright pink. John bent down slightly, expertly holding his lunch in one hand, and grabbed Sherlock's pen, holding it out for the curly-haired boy with a charming smile, of whom slowly took it, shyly swallowing and shoving it into the black backpack by his feet.

"Thank you," Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his eyes down to the closed notebook in his pale, slender fingers. Suddenly, he was glad he'd left the title area blank.

"Yeah, no problem," John grinned politely, his eyes roaming over Sherlock's awkward sitting position, his hooded sweatshirt, dirty Converse and skinny jeans, the way he was nibbling nervously on his bottom lip and fiddling with the corner of a tattered, rather worn down notebook.

When the blonde continued to stare and remain silent, Sherlock forced himself to look back up at the boy, his eyes narrowing in question, putting on his trusty _'you mean nothing to me'_ mask as he watched John smile that stupidly happy smile, "Yes?"

The rugby captain's ocean blue eyes widened rather rapidly and he was instantly coughing and fumbling nervously and one-handedly with his backpack straps, "Oh, I, uh," He swallowed and moved to the other side of the corner table, sitting directly in front of Sherlock, his lunch tray clattering against its surface as he seemingly collected himself, confidence right back in those ever-perfect features, "How are you?"

Sherlock blinked, "I'm sorry?"

John bit his lip, glanced down, swallowed, and then shrugged a shoulder, "How are you?"

With a scoff of disbelief, Sherlock shook his head and found himself glaring at the blonde boy, his brows drawn forwards in utter confusion, "You came all the way over here, from your usual table, just to ask how I am?"

John narrowed his eyes, looked up, and then nodded, smiling a suddenly very wide smile and chuckling softly, "Yeah, pretty much."

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that.

So he simply frowned, slipped his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and stared narrowly at John, chewing on his bottom lip a little before shaking his head, "And they say _I'm_ the freak."

John's brow furrowed, his smile dropping, and Sherlock panicked slightly, only slightly, concerned he'd said something wrong.

"Who's ' _they'_?"

Sherlock shrugged a single shoulder, his hands still pocketed, "Everyone." He signified his point by glancing around the cafeteria, observing the other students chucking food at one another, laughing through their obnoxious chewing, jabbing fingers at their friends, lifting milk cartons haphazardly into the air – an awful bunch really. There should be no weight to their opinions. They were all idiots. So why did it bother Sherlock so much? Why did it _hurt_?

"Well, people talk to amuse themselves," John began, jolting Sherlock from his thoughts, "and for some reason, talking complete shite about a person is funny."

Sherlock swallowed, watching John with a cautious, guarded expression, unsure whether his kindness was a trait, or a trick, "Unless it's merely true."

Those blue eyes flickered to meet Sherlock's own and he was instantly frozen in place, their deep, navy shine so entirely intense, Sherlock nearly forgot to inhale.

"Doubt it," John smirked, before grabbing his milk carton, folding it open, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. Sherlock watched as his throat bobbed and quickly glanced away, mentally slapping himself from his obvious gazing and glaring down at his scruffy notebook.

"So, what were you up to?" John asked suddenly, and Sherlock glanced up to see that he had moved on to picking at the small chicken sandwich atop his tray.

Sherlock arched a brow, "You mean, before you rudely interrupted me?"

"Oi," John chuckled, smiling, white teeth and all, "I picked up your pen for you. Don't make me regret it."

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock let out a huff, "Oh, right. Yes. Good on you. I guess chivalry really _isn't_ dead."

To his utter surprise, John let out a sharp giggle, grinning across the table at Sherlock, and looking – and sounding, mind – positively _adorable_. Sherlock blushed. Had he just made _John Watson_ _giggle_?

"I don't get an answer then?" John smiled, itching the back of his neck and then leaning forward to take a rather small bite of his school lunch.

Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat, "Nope."

With another soft laugh, John nodded and shrugged a shoulder, "Fair enough."

Smirking, Sherlock grabbed for his notebook and reached down, sliding it into his backpack behind his other things, and securing it safely from view. When he lifted himself back up, he met John's eyes instantly – blue sapphires watching him curiously, narrowing in observant amusement, the corner of John's lips quirked up just slightly.

Unsettled with being on the spot, Sherlock gulped and glanced around nervously before facing John head-on once more, "Coach the Roach, then."

John's expression instantly lit up and he threw his head back, practically cackling from hilarity, an even wider grin than the one before now present on his face.

"You watched it?"

"Obviously."

"Did you like it?"

Sherlock looked away, observing the crowds of teenagers and lifting a shoulder carelessly, "It was satisfactory."

John scoffed, but the smile remained, "Gee, thanks."

Sherlock inwardly scolded himself – quite eager not to scare the boy away thank you very much – before turning back to John and lifting a curious brow, "Do you really call him that?"

John made to answer him, mouth open as he beamed at Sherlock, but his voice was replaced with another – one far harsher, far more unpleasant.

"Watson," Sebastian Wilkes snapped, stepping up to Sherlock's designated corner table – tucked away from the entirety of the student population, purposely chosen for such a reason – and placing his bulky, large hands on its surface, looming over Sherlock.

Suddenly, the curly-haired boy felt very, very small.

"What you doin' sittin' with Holmes?" He scoffed, raising one thick, black eyebrow at John, who sat discretely glaring his way, before running a hand over his slicked-back, black hair.

"Just chatting," John practically growled, biting the inside of his cheek as Sebastian turned to give Sherlock an entirely bitter once-over.

Sherlock simply stared at the table, one hand out of his pocket now and on the handle of his old backpack, more than ready to bolt.

"What, need a new subject for one of your videos?" Sebastian joked, smirking and barking out a revoltingly loud guffaw as he leered down at Sherlock's curly head, "You finding out about all his freaky faggot kinks?"

Within an instant, eager to keep from hearing John's response, whatever it may be, Sherlock jumped to his feet, barely meeting John's eyes as he turned away from the table, swallowing and clearing his throat, keeping his head downcast, "Enjoy the rest of your lunch, John."

And with that, he was walking as quickly as he could out of the cafeteria, bursting through the doors and reaching into his sweatshirt pocket, shoving his headphones back into his ears and trying desperately to forget about his interaction with one _John Watson_.

* * *

John stormed across the field; irritation and anger from earlier events still making his ears ring, still running his temperature high, still making his palms sweat with rage. He had no right. No _right_.

The blonde tugged at the loose material of his jersey, a scowl gracing his usually soft features as he kicked at the soppy green grass below his feet, lifting his head to watch as the rest of the team slowly made their way towards the middle of the field for the day's practice.

"John," He heard Mike call out from behind him, the stubby teen jogging up to his side and placing a warm hand on his shoulder, "Alright, mate?"

John shrugged it off and shook his head, clearing his throat and allowing his old friend a short, glaring glance, before sighing and running a hand through his damp hair.

"Let's just get this practice over with, yeah?"

With a nod of affirmation, Mike trailed beside him as they made their way toward the stretching group of rugby players, each of them laughing and teasing and joking and snickering to themselves. It just fueled John's already brewing anger.

He stomped over and plopped onto the grass, beginning his usual warm up, straightening out one leg and grabbing hold of his shoe, guiding the point of his toe until he felt the pull beneath and along the bottom of his calves – all the while, keeping his eyes trained on one person in particular. He watched as Sebastian Wilkes punched another teammate playfully in the arm, watched as he smirked darkly at another's joke, watched as he ran spider-like fingers through his black hair. And he did it all with a scowl firmly in place.

The high-pitched whirr of the coach's whistle jogged him from his glaring, knocking all of the boys into action, leaping to their feet and beginning to spread out across the field as the Roach barked orders their way. John jogged to where he needed to be and gazed out at his teammates, suddenly loathing them all, suddenly wishing he were anywhere else but here. And, even as things were kicked into gear and the drill began, John continued to gaze with a look of resentment until, before he knew it, he had a face full of bad breath and fuzzy mustache.

"Watson," Coach spat, glaring directly at him, jabbing a finger upward accusingly, "Distracted, are we?"

John shrugged a shoulder and frowned angrily down at the ground, choosing to spare himself the smell of old garlic and morning coffee.

"Oi," the man snapped again, two grimy fingers lifting to tap harshly at John's shoulder, forcing him backwards slightly before he finally met the coach's eyes, much to his own resent.

"I'm fine," He murmured, sighing loudly and kicking at the muddy ground with his cleats.

"Sure about that?" Coach the Roach interrogated, arching a thick brow and leaning down further into John's personal space, "You're team captain, Watson. Get your shit together, yeah?"

And with that, the insect-like man was trudging away, wandering off to yell at a few other members and taking his ever-present whistle and clipboard with him.

John rolled his eyes, glancing around to see if any of the boy's were paying him any attention, before his eyes settled on a distant figure, yet again lugging a rather large duffle bag beside him, his long, spindly legs carrying him forwards rather quickly in a direction he seemed quite set on. John swallowed, resisting the urge to run across the field and join him on his quest to wherever he was headed. Something about Sherlock was alluring in the most mysterious of ways. He was clever and intriguing of course, but there was something untamable in those eyes, and John had noticed since the beginning – something that said, _"I belong to no one, and I listen to no one._ " It was that – that thirst to be himself no matter the judgment or question – that kept John on his toes, observing Sherlock's every move before he disappeared around the corner of the gym, hidden from view.

John sighed, turning back around in an attempt to regain his focus and take on whatever drills the coach had planned, only to be suddenly slammed into the ground, the forceful shove of a teammate's shoulder knocking him to the floor, earning him a face full of dirt and mud beneath his nails. Within an instant, he was lifting his head in rapid question, eyes wide in shock before they narrowed in silent fury, finding himself staring up into the face of an amused Wilkes.

"Pay attention, Watson," He scoffed, arching a brow and elevating his arms in a questioning shrug, "We've started a practice game, ya bloody dimwit."

He flew to his feet and fixed Sebastian with the darkest, meanest, most hateful glare he could possibly muster before nodding and shoving Wilkes lightly to the side as he readjusted himself and brushed the dirt and grass from his kit. If he spent most of that practice " _accidentally_ " tackling Sebastian Wilkes to the ground, several times, and pondering chatting with Sherlock again – well – he wouldn't admit it to anyone.

* * *

Sherlock fixed his camera to it's tripod and let out a long, rather drawn-out sigh, shaking his head as he switched the device on and to recording mode. He'd be an idiot, of course – thinking that he could talk to another human being without there being repercussions. Fraternizing with another put himself in a vulnerable state. And John – captain of the rugby team, up in the popular scale, golden boy of Baker – was the worst person he could have possibly chosen.

With a soft growl, he reached for his shirt, lugging it slowly off and standing bare-chested in his black tights and pale pink ballet shoes. Stepping gracefully over to his duffle bag and pulling out his phone, he tapped in his pass code and brought up his music, scrolling through his playlists till he found the song he'd planned his next routine to. Smiling lightly to himself, he turned up the volume of ' _Underneath',_ a melody he'd been meaning to dance to for ages now and leaned over to click the record button on the top of his camcorder.

 _Strip away the flesh and bone.  
_ He pointed his toes, hands flowing downwards like waves of a waterfall, guiding the entirety of the viewer's eye with the curve of his slender pale back, the wings of a bee bending and weaving.

 _Look beyond the lies you've known._ _  
_He dropped his foot flat and then pushed up, to the very top of his pink shoe, body nearly light as a feather, arms outstretched.

 _Everybody wants to talk about a freak._ _  
_He danced without regret, without hesitation, knowing his face and hair and any defining features would be blurred from clear view.

 _No one wants to dig that deep._ _  
_And in an instant, he dropped from his tiptoes and collapsed to the ground, spinning across the studio floor, chest heaving, body whirling, movements graceful and poised for both beauty and emphasis.

He closed his eyes and forgot; forgot about his stupid crush on John Watson, forgot about the words spat at him from the mouths of pathetic jocks, forgot about the weight and force of his uncle's hand.

For the moment, flying across the wood floor, he just _was_.

 _Let me take you underneath._


	5. Alteration

_Buzz._

 _MH: Did you see it?_

John smiled down at his phone, shaking his head in amusement as he stealthily held the device between himself and his desk, hidden from his English teacher's view.

 _JW: Course I saw it._

He waited.  
 _Buzz._

 _MH: I might have cried. Just a little._

John held back a scoff, smirking a little at his friend's response and sighing softly, turning away from the screen for a moment to stare blankly ahead. _Theballetbee_ 's most recent video had been quite something. Hell, even John had gotten a little teary eyed – only a little, mind you. The stranger in the video had danced with such determination, his body focused; his movements gentle yet almost angry, sharp and soft all at once. John had been entranced by the routine, the words in the song, the beauty of the blurred man of whom had ballet down to perfection. He thought about the number of people who didn't even know about him, of whom he was nonexistent to. John pitied them. He vowed to tell every single person he ever met about this anonymous " _balletbee_ ," and he would call doing so a public service.

 _Buzz_.

 _MH: Okay, maybe a lot._

Molly had been the one to introduce him to the anonymous prodigy – in fact; she'd been the one who got him into YouTube in the first place. They'd been friends for ages, the two of them; starting out as next-door neighbors, attending the same schools, always staying in touch – to John, she was practically part of the family. Once they'd reached secondary school together, she'd turned to him, ordered him into buying a camera and stated, " _Don't just tell me your stories. Tell the world."_

And so he did, and he'll never stop being grateful to her.

They told one another everything – well, mostly everything – and John found refuge in her more-than-willing-to-listen ears. They shared homework answers, favorite movies, shows, their songs of the week, and it was because of such that John was told all about _theballetbee_.

It was safe to say Molly was perhaps even more obsessed than he was. He didn't blame her, of course.

He smiled to himself, grabbed for his phone and quickly typed out a reply.

 _JW: I'm gonna shout him out next vid._

He bit his lip and leaned back in his chair. The dancer deserved it. If John could get just a few of his subscribers to check the lad out, he'd be happy. He'd wanted to for a while, to tell his fans – god, that still sounds weird – about one of his favorite artists, someone he listened to and kept up with on the daily, someone he was close to obsessing over, but he was never sure of when, or how, or frankly, what his watchers would think.

 _Buzz_.

 _MH: Good on you. Wonder if he watches you?_

John paused and narrowed his eyes, humming inwardly to himself before biting his lip in thought.

That would be something. That would be something indeed.

* * *

Sherlock lugged his duffle bag beside him, dropping it down by his feet as he plummeted into one of the many desks lining his math class, the late bell only just ringing for his last lesson of the day. He dropped his arms onto the table and laid his head atop them, using his one wrist to hide, best he could, the gash along his eyebrow. It's what he deserved, he supposed. He should have never pointed out the hickey Sebastian Wilkes's received from _not_ his girlfriend, or the fact that Philip Anderson still wets the bed sometimes due to a rather serious bladder issue, or that Carl Powers may or may not have herpes. He couldn't help what he saw; his problem was that he had trouble keeping from voicing it.

He winced, as he pressed just a bit to hard, sighing and swallowing thickly, knowing one blow from Wilkes would certainly leave a bruise. He shouldn't care so much about who saw – his uncle wouldn't look twice, wouldn't ask if he was okay, wouldn't check to make sure it wasn't too bad; he had no friends to show concern anyway; even the teachers hated him here, why would they show any sort of alarm?

No. He was alone, well and truly. _The way it should be_ , he thought.

With a sigh, he watched as his maths teacher spoke animatedly into his phone, sitting straight at his desk, tapping a pencil rapidly against his textbook, fully invested and seemingly unbothered by the full classroom awaiting his direction. Sherlock hummed to himself. Oh good, more time to mope.

"What are you, seventy?"

Sherlock turned slightly in his seat to glance over at the back corner of the room where a number of boys had angled their desks just enough to divulge in a rather lively conversation, hands waving and jaws jiggling vigorously with the speed at which they spoke. Amongst them, Sebastian Moran, James Sholto, Mike Stamford, Gavin – _Graham? Geoff? Something with a G_ – and, Sherlock unconsciously blushed, John Watson. The five of them sat chuckling at one another, John twiddling his mobile in his hands, and Sholto arching a brow at the rugby captain's phone screen.

"Yeah, bit weird, mate," James scoffed, punching John lightly in the shoulder before leaning back in the plastic blue chair of his desk.

"Right, shut up lads," John snapped, half amused and half annoyed – or so he appeared to Sherlock – as he glared at his friends, a frown dawning on his features and creasing the soft skin between his brows, "None of you have even given him a listen."

Lestrade lifted his head from his own phone, clearing his throat to add his own outlook on the situation, running a hand through his silver-dyed hair as he flicked his chin forward, "Oi, John has a point."

The rugby captain nodded and huffed at the rest of the boys, relaxing back in his seat, the conversation quieting a little as John's position seemed to declare it over. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned back around, laying his head down once more and shutting his eyes, eager to drown out the noise, ignore the chattering and obnoxious yelling sounding throughout the classroom, teenagers throwing rubbers at one another, crumpled paper, but, much to his own resentment, his brain seemed to focus in on one thing in particular.

The sound of John Watson's voice – a voice that had sprung into action once more as he bickered with his friends. Soft and gentle, yet stern and strict, a true captain's voice – not a tremor to be heard, not an inch of insecurity, merely pure, overwhelmingly warm confidence, a boy who was comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock smiled a little, for the first time all day, as he listened to the bright sound of John's laugh, joyous and light – Sherlock loved that laugh, that welcoming giggle that wholly enveloped you, that made you feel safe. It was a home. Sherlock was convinced there was a home in John's laugh.

Sherlock was content to simply listen for the remainder of his class period, beginning to relax, shoulders losing tension, eyes lingering shut, mind at ease for once, until that mellow, soft, inviting voice spoke a name that instantly sent him in panic mode – a pure, horrifying, holy-fucking-shit kind of panic mode.

" _Theballetbee_."

* * *

"What kind of name is that?" Sebastian Moran snapped, arching a brow in curiosity and staring down at the YouTube channel displayed on John's mobile screen.

John swallowed thickly, annoyed by his friend's denseness, and snatched his phone back, letting out a sigh and shaking his head, "A suitable one."

"And he does what?" Mike Stamford asked, staring intently at John, rather wrapped up in the blonde's story as he bit into a chocolate bar.

John watched as all his friends stared back at him, brows raised in both intrigue and confusion, each and every one of them looking entirely blank, entirely brainless. He let out a soft scoff and looked down, running a hand through his dirty blonde hair and turning his mobile over in his hands – he had known this was a bad idea from the start but he couldn't _not_ explain himself when Moran had caught him watching one of the dancer's routines while waiting for the bell to ring.

"Ballet and violin," John replied, shrugging a shoulder and swallowing the knot in his throat, "and he composes."

James Sholto let out a snicker and reached for his own phone, yanking it out and tapping the screen swiftly and with practiced ease, "Composes what?"

Rolling his eyes, John grunted out a sharp, "Music."

Sholto shot him a short, playful glare before placing his phone on the table, directly in view of the others as he scrolled through the one and only _theballetbee's_ channel. John watched nervously, biting the inside of his cheek as all his friends practically piled over James and his mobile, eyes narrowed and brows furrowed curiously. It was quiet for a few moments before Sholto spoke up once more, scoffing rather loudly and glancing over at John with a sharp, leering smirk.

"Boring music, you mean," He declared, pushing his phone closer to the others and directing his full attention to John.

John frowned, "Why, because it's classical?"

"Is this what you do in your free time?" James interrogated in amusement, expression frighteningly teasing, "Watch some queer tiptoe around a studio, and play sad violin songs?"

John scowled, clenching and unclenching his fists beneath his desk as he fixed his friend with a rightful, well-deserved glare.

"Why," he bit out, reiterating the boy's words, "is it boring?"

"The kind of music he plays on that ancient violin is the kind of music my granddad puts on for his afternoon naps," Sholto scoffed, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back in his seat, "Boring."

Moran took the tense, and rather short, moment of silence to chime in, shrugging a shoulder and leaning back in his seat, letting out a wide yawn as he shut his eyes and crossed his arms over his firm chest, "He could at least add a beat to some of them or some shit like that."

John glanced at him, instantly glaring daggers, sending the boy into a state of reddened shame as he slouched further in his chair and acted as though he were going to take a conveniently timed catnap. When the rugby captain turned away from the brute and back to the other boy choosing to push his buttons, Sholto was shaking his head in amusement and running a pale hand through his bleach blonde hair.

"We're not trying to piss you off purposely, mate," James guffawed, grinning at John's uptight position in his chair, shoulders raised, eyes fixated and narrowed, "but he's just not our style, yeah?"

Greg Lestrade glanced over at John's clenched jaw and cleared his throat, sliding Sholto's mobile across the desk and back in front of the judgmental idiot of a human being. "I thought he was alright," He added, shrugging one shoulder and swallowing thickly as both John and James turned their full attention towards him.

The tension's hold on John's expression instantly broke as a wide smile corrupted the anger in his features, teeth bared brightly as he nodded his head in pure gratitude for his friend. Greg was a good lad – he'd known him since his start at the school, gotten to know him better through rugby, and become even closer through simple self-expression. Greg didn't judge, unlike practically everyone else at Baker.

Sholto scoffed and shook his head, rolling his eyes and looking towards the front of the room, "You plonkers need to upgrade."

"I'm still not over the nutty name he goes by," Moran murmured, half asleep in his chair.

John shut his eyes in pure agony. _Brainless oafs_.

* * *

If Sherlock didn't breathe anytime soon, he'd certainly pass out.

John Watson watches his videos. _His_ videos. His compositions, his dances, his covers. All of it.

John was a _fan_. John was a fan of _his_ work – John was a fan of _him_. And bloody _hell_ was he a fan of John.

Sherlock jolted as a loud voice pierced through the veil of the corner table's conversation, his maths teacher springing into action, the very shrillness of his tone cringe-worthy. The curly-haired brunette glanced around discretely as students began groaning and quieting, reaching in their bags for pencils and pens, papers and folders. Sherlock merely sat still – glued to his place there, in his uncomfortable chair, his elbows digging into the wooden surface of his desk, his mind whirling with information he wasn't sure he'd be able to contain for much longer.

Sherlock considered the entire scenario. John watched him, watched what he made, and seemed, believe it or not, rather, entirely, intrigued by him. In fact, John sounded impressed, proud, ridiculously so but legitimately, thoroughly bewildered. Why, and how Sherlock had managed to deserve to have John as a viewer, as a _subscriber_ , he'd never know. But John's friends – they were another story.

He scoffed internally to himself, a smirk spreading across the whole of his expression as he considered his options.

Oh, he'd show them. He'd make his point. Now that he could, now that he knew he'd be able to reach the eyes of human beings who continuously make his life a living hell, he couldn't give up the opportunity to shame them, to prove them wrong.

They would see, he would make them see, what a thoroughly equipped mind, and a simple alteration to song, could do.

"Something funny, Holmes?" His maths teacher asked, halfway through a lecture on quadratic equations.

Sherlock smirked a little wider, his eyes lifting to latch on to his teacher's own as he swallowed and cleared his throat, "No sir. Nothing whatsoever."

He would do this. He _could_ do this.

He would take some kind of stand, a musical decision to prove a well-needed point. He would compose something new, something untouchable and untamable.

And, best of all, he would make John proud.


	6. Yellow

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

He was distracted, off course, unnerved, unsettled, erratic, unsteady – he couldn't bloody concentrate and whether that was simply because his mind just liked to watch him suffer, or his transport needed sustenance, or because a certain someone was on his mind he would never know. But he was, in fact, worried that, for the most part, he leaned toward the latter.

 _Ignore him, Sherlock Holmes_ , he told himself.

Ignore the blue eyes that were practically mini oceans – withholding so much mystery, so much wonder, so much unknown and unshed beauty. Ignore the shape of those plush lips, and the curve of those rugby trained calves, and the joyous harmony of that laugh, or the sun stroked surface of that blonde hair, or that – oh, for fuck's sake.

Sherlock slammed his secret notebook shut, and shoved it to the side, his pens rolling away in fear as he let his elbows rest against the mahogany surface of his desk, his hands scratching, shaking, pulling at his curls in earnest. He was losing his edge. How was he supposed to compose a brand new style, a brand new vision, if he couldn't focus? He needed to forget about John Watson.

John Watson and his stupid YouTube videos, his stupid rugby practice and his stupid, rather adorable, love for classical music and Sherlock's own videos. Stupid. He was an idiot. He was a popular kid, a jock, a people-pleaser, kind on the outside, manipulative on the inside. He was ordinary. Wasn't he?

 _Ping!_

Sherlock jolted out of his thoughts and glared down at the distraction, a small message bubble appearing across the screen of his phone.

 _How's school?_

With a snort, he rolled his eyes and looked away from the device, grabbing for his pen again and reaching to throw his notebook open, aggravation swelling within him, his shoulders tense as he inhaled sharply, eager for everyone, in his thoughts as well, to leave him alone.

 _Ping!_ He growled, turning to glare at his mobile and narrowing his eyes.

 _I'm trying to be civil. Can't you tell?_

Scoffing, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, running an erratic hand through his curls and tapping his pen against his bottom lip, the crevice that usually stored his many ideas simply blank, a dull emptiness, aside from the reoccurring, unforgiving image of a blonde with blue eyes.

Something intense. Something different. Something popular and likable. Something "not boring." More upbeat, more exciting, more modern. More, more, more.

 _Ping!_

 _Make any friends?_

Sherlock leaned forwards once more, placing his pen to paper and scribbling rapidly across the page. He knew what he would do. It had been done, but not by many, and not like this – and he would, of course, make it better.

 _Ping!_

 _Teasing. Obviously._

He wondered what John would think. What if John hated this specific project? What if he uploaded his video and John loathed it so much he stopped watching? What if he unsubscribed? Sherlock's pen stopped moving and he swallowed, looking down at the messy script doodled across the page. No. If John were anything like his friends, he'd probably agree that Sherlock needed a change, needed to "spice things up a bit." But John wasn't like his friends, was he? John had liked Sherlock's videos. He'd liked the classic instrumentals and the soft melancholy compositions Sherlock stayed up all hours working on. John appreciated him.

 _Ping!_

 _How's Uncle Siger?_

Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes. He'd do this. It was one video. One. He'd change things a little and then go back to how things were – classical and boring, according to the ingenious James Sholto.

 _Ping!_

 _Stop ignoring me._

He huffed and glanced at his phone, pointedly ignoring the unread messages and checking the time. He sighed, nodding once and grabbing his notebook, shoving the old thing into his black backpack and hoisting it over his shoulder, before slipping over to the opposite corner of his barren bedroom and grabbing his pre-packed duffle bag. He'd call Ms. Hudson on his way to school and see if he could reserve the studio for an hour or two - he could do this. Since when did he care so heavily about what John Watson thought of his videos? Before yesterday, he hadn't even known he watched them. So, what did it matter? He had 4,909 other subscribers who were waiting for something new, another video to watch, another composition to listen to.

 _Ping!_

 _Fine. Be petulant, brother mine._

Deep down, however, as much as he hated to admit it, it was John Watson's opinion he held above all the rest.

 **...**

John leaned back in the single, yellow, floral chair of the narrow dressing room hallway, staring blankly down at his phone, scrolling lazily through Twitter and holding back goofy smiles as he checked his notifications. He chuckled at a few of the more amusing "tweeters" and blushed at the sweeter ones, expressing how much they enjoyed his videos and how he "gets them through the day." This would always be his favorite part. Not the videos, not likes, not the number of views, but the people; the people who commented on his new content right away and followed him on Twitter whenever he mentioned he had one. Those were his highlights, things he looked forward to. The fact that there were real people out there who looked up to him, who he inspired, who relied on him; that was the best part, that was the most amazing feeling.

"Fans?" Molly smirked, arching a brow as she exited the fitting room, twirling cheerfully in a little red dress and posing in one of the hallway mirrors.

John nodded and swallowed before reciting, "Someone told me to 'steal Coach the Roach's TARDIS and vlog the entire thing.'"

Molly let out a loud giggle and slapped a hand to her mouth, shaking her head in amusement and grinning down at him, "You asked for it, making jokes like that. Now they all know you watch Doctor Who."

John scoffed and smiled down at the screen of his mobile, exiting Twitter and tapping onto Instagram, "And that's a bad thing?"

Molly snorted and twisted a bit more in her dress, observing how the color and body of the garment fit her before turning to glare playfully at John, "Do you even know me? Of course it's not a bad thing."

With a laugh, John nodded and touched onto the small icon at the bottom of the screen, opening up his camera and taking a quick picture of his shoes and the hall's pale, pink tiled floor, "Hey, at least I have practically everyone speculating that my rugby coach is the next Doctor."

Molly threw back her head as she guffawed, chestnut brown hair sliding off her shoulders to hang behind her before she composed herself, smiling shyly and turning away from the mirror to better face John, "As enlightening as that idea is, I need your opinion."

John quickly typed in a caption, informing the public and his followers that he was reluctantly helping a friend with a post-birthday, clothes shopping spree, before turning back to Molly and shrugging a shoulder, "It looks nice."

Molly dropped her hands from her hips and let her jaw hang open, feigning utter astonishment, "Nice? That's the best you can do?"

Sighing and letting out an exasperated laugh, John put down his phone and observed Molly, eyeing how the color compared to her eyes, how the bodice fit her figure, how the shape of the dress suited her thin frame.

"Too loud," he began, shaking his head and biting his lip, getting to his feet and running a hand swiftly through his hair, "I wouldn't go with red. Try something yellow, maybe? Yellow fits you."

Molly smiled timidly and nodded, slipping away and back into the dressing room to remove the dress, sliding the curtain across behind her.

Happy with himself, John leaned back once more, crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a sigh, "Hey Molls?"

The small, gentle voice emanated from behind the thick fabric door, "Yeah?"

"How about dress advice for boy advice?"

Molly's head immediately appeared at the edge of the fitting room, her pale, bare neck extended as she arched a brow at John, "Boy advice?"

"Not like that," He huffed, rolling his eyes and looking away, a blush tinting his features, "As in, Sherlock."

Molly smirked and disappeared once more, fumbling further with the clothes she'd been wearing when she walked into the overpriced store, "Sherlock Holmes?"

John nodded and stared blankly down at his hands, fingers messing blindly with the fringe of his hooded, rugby sweatshirt, "The one and only."

"Don't know much about him except that he's sculpted like a bloody Greek statue. Why?"

John felt his cheeks redden at the statement and swallowed, shrugging to himself and placing a hand on the back of his neck.

"I wanna," He began, sighing shyly, "I don't know, be his friend, I guess."

The small girl reemerged, expertly tying her hair up in a brown ponytail, dressed now in blue jeans and a pale pink, baggy sweater that hung limply just past her waist.

"I was wondering what you were up to," Molly chuckled, checking herself in the mirror, "I saw you two having lunch together."

John scoffed and nodded, scowling at the floor and shaking his head, "Yeah, Wilkes thoroughly buggered that up for me."

Molly hummed sympathetically and grabbed for her purse, motioning for John to follow as they slid out of the dressing room hallway and back into the calm of casual shoppers meandering around Molly's favorite store.

"He's a bit mysterious," She added, approaching a rack of clothing and flipping through the hangers.

"I guess," John cleared his throat, leaning up against one of the large shelves, of which held folded, multicolored skinny jeans, and placing his fists in his sweatshirt pockets.

"Not in a bad way, just as in, no one knows all that much about the lad," She shrugged, "only that he's super smart and does that deduction thing."

John nodded and let out a sharp, degrading laugh, "Yeah, and yet they still torment him."

Molly sighed, shooting him an apologetic look of empathy before continuing her search for something appealing and yellow.

"What is the deduction thing anyway?" John asked, narrowed his eyes as he frowned. Mike and his friends had mentioned it before, always saying how he knew things he shouldn't, and that he saw things no one should be able to see. Hell, the whole _school_ was practically _terrified_ of it.

Molly turned to him just slightly and shrugged a small, bony shoulder, "Well, apparently he looks at you and picks up on little details no one would really think to notice, ya know?"

John hummed and bobbed his head in understanding, his brows furrowing as he thought about it; it made sense, why people wouldn't particularly like that, but it merely made John all the more excited - Sherlock Holmes was a wonder, a puzzle he wished to solve.

"I don't think he trusts me," John began, looking at Molly with a genuine, open expression, eyes somewhat saddened as he explained, "at least not enough to truly be himself."

"Well you can't blame him," Molly stopped flipping through hangers and turned to him, crossing her arms and biting her lip in thought, "I'm sure with how most people treat him he doesn't necessarily take to strangers."

With a bit more determination, John nodded, moving steadily around Molly to continue her search while the two talked, fingers gliding past uninteresting garments, "I need to show him. Somehow, you know? That I'm not an arse, that I'm, I don't know, an average human being."

Molly snorted and grabbed at a dress John skipped past, yanking it from the metal rack as she smirked at him, "I don't think he necessarily wants average."

John rolled his eyes and followed as she turned back towards the dressing room, guiding the both of them once more into the little hallway where she yet again disappeared into the fitting area.

"But really, Molly," He laughed exhaustedly, "any ideas?"

He heard Molly hum from behind the curtain as she began slipping on the yellow cocktail dress, "Alright, well, how much do you know about him?"

John scoffed and chewed on his bottom lip, "Basically only that he watches my videos and -"

"Hang on," Molly interrupted, giggling to herself, "He's a fan? Of you?"

John blushed, looking down as he listened to her laugh across from him, feeling his lips curve upwards in a proud smile, "Yeah, well. I'm just that good I guess."

Molly snickered, poking her head out again and giving him a cheeky grin, "You're irresistible, it seems."

John flushed and turned away, shaking his head and feigning a scowl, "Shut up, Hooper."

"You're such a worry wort," She squeaked in amusement, ducking back into the changing room, "Just give him your mobile number."

"Isn't that kind of," John bit his lip, "flirtatious?"

Molly reappeared draped in the petite, yellow dress, its skirt flowing out behind her, whilst the blouse stuck tight to her figure. "Only," She spun around in the mirror before turning to wink at him, "if you want it to be."

With a huff, John slammed back against the wall, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as Molly giggled and twirled, admiring her reflection carefully. When she caught her breath, running a finger behind her ear to tuck away loose strands, she faced John, biting her lip and shrugging, "So?"

John nodded, "Definitely yellow."

 **...**

Sherlock glared at his reflection in the mirror, scowling at the softening blues and purples and the emerging greens and yellows of his black eyes. _Disgusting_ , he thought to himself. Bruises didn't exactly help his freakish looks, or diminish the attention he didn't want. At least it was fading.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he yanked his backpack up from the bathroom floor and hoisted it back onto his shoulder, only to lean back down again and drag his duffle bag upwards as well. He was officially shooting his video today. Luckily, Ms. Hudson found an empty session for him. She'd been happy to oblige his needs, of course only after scolding him on the sleep he didn't get last night.

He had been brainstorming - and that meant he'd had no time for sleep - and he had told her such, which was why he could practically hear her frown through his mobile phone. But he continued to express to her that the sooner he got his new video done - his new scheme, his new sound, his new design - the better, and she had reluctantly delivered him a stamp of approval for the use of her dance studio.

Ms. Hudson didn't exactly know about what he did. She knew he recorded his dances, and she knew it was important to him, but she didn't know to what extent he used said videos for. He was almost certain she thought he was using them as footage for recruiting universities or dance programs. He did however, as a ' _thank you_ ' for allowing him to use her studio, send her small portions of his original dances, sometimes by email or on a disc in the mail, seeing as how Ms. Hudson wasn't exactly a very tech-savvy human being. She loved them endlessly and would continuously express just how talented he was, admiring his footwork and movements in the most admirable of technical manners possible. If there was ever one person Sherlock would admit to loving, it would certainly be Ms. Hudson.

Ignoring his gruesomely hideous face in the mirror, he held both bags by their straps, one on each shoulder, and made his way out of one of Baker's ever-so-not-clean restrooms, angrily hauling the heavy door open, only to run directly into another human being, sending himself suddenly tumbling backwards. He caught his balance on the white bathroom wall and looked up, glare in place, ready to snap some arduous insult and be on his way, only to freeze on the spot, John Watson standing there, blue eyes apologetically wide as he lifted his hands in a playful surrender.

"Easy there," he chuckled, a warm smile on his face, "Alright?"

Sherlock blinked; there was the bronze hair again, and the pink cheeks and the plush lips and the white teeth, all put together in one utterly complete masterpiece atop a canvas of perfection.

He was losing it, Sherlock Holmes was losing it. _Someone call 999 before it's too late_.

Realizing he was expected to say something, he cleared his throat and swallowed thickly, looking down and away from those oceanic irises and trying to head towards the door once more.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, readjusting his bag straps before stepped forwards and around John, only to feel a hand grip his shoulder, sending him into a nearly violent flinch, his entire body tensing for what his mind shouted as, _'John is just like them, he's going to hit you, watch him hit you, and he'll enjoy it to, here it comes, freak.'_

He shut his eyes tight, only to feel the touch slowly soften to a simple placement of hand, skin warming him through the soft fabric of his white dress shirt. He glanced up at John of whom was staring down at him in concern, blue puddles of distress shining down upon his pale, blank expression.

"What happened to your eye?"

Sherlock blinked; he didn't know? Clearly he knew. Was he teasing him? Probably, maybe, yes, no? It angered Sherlock, as much as he never wanted to be angry at those blue, innocent eyes or that warm, currently missing, smile.

Was John completely oblivious? Or did Wilkes tell him what he'd done and ask John to go pester him about it? Or perhaps, which couldn't possibly be logical, John was concerned? No. John was kind yes, caring sure, polite of course, but that didn't mean he was concerned. And certainly not for Sherlock's well being, right?

Unable to think of a decent answer - did he want to be rude, honest, in-denial? - Sherlock simply shook his head and tried to push past the other boy, eager to get out of the uncomfortable and terribly tense situation, but John only reached out and grabbed his shoulder again, those nimble fingers searing like hot metal against his skin.

Sherlock froze, facing the handle of the bathroom door and swallowing his outrage and fear, the combination of both sticking thickly in his throat as he heard John take a step closer, breathing shallow and almost uneasy.

"Sherlock," John's voice beckoned, soft and careful and gentle, "hey."

Sherlock instantly shrugged his hand off at the piteous tone and scowled, glaring over his shoulder and snapping, "Ask your _friends_ ," before yanking the door open and exiting into the busy corridor of secondary school students.

He bit his lip hard as he practically sprinted to his next class, half of him heavy with regret, the other grasping on to some form of self-pride. He shouldn't have even said anything. He never should have said anything.

Fuck it _all_.

 **...**

"John!"

The rugby captain jolted in his seat, his head spinning to meet eyes with James Sholto, of whom was currently watching him with a somewhat confused and wholly irritated expression as he huffed, "Are you even listening?"

John hadn't been, whatsoever, because, to him, at this very moment, watching a skinny, ethereal boy with curly hair huddle up in his thick sweater and scribble in his odd notebook, was far more intriguing than listening to another one of Sholto's mundane ex-girlfriend stories.

Swallowing thickly and glancing up at James, John took a sip of his water bottle, leaving his school lunch untouched, and hummed to himself, muttering a soft, "'Course."

Sholto rolled his eyes and continued on with his sob story of how she - _Christie? Rachel? Jessica?_ \- never even gave him a blowjob during the six weeks they were dating.

John knew about the majority of his friends, though sometimes he didn't enjoy calling them that. He knew that they were rude, and arrogant, and untrustworthy. He also knew that they were judgmental, and close-minded, and, he did in fact know, that they were bullies. The worst kind, verbal and physical; the kind you see on television that practically keeps you from wanting to attend secondary school. And he'd known for a while that Sherlock, mysteriously calm and collected Sherlock, was one of their victims. Hell, honestly he seemed to be everyone's victim. And as much as John hated it, he didn't exactly know how to stop it.

"Hello fags," Wilkes' voice shot up over Sholto's ridiculous tale, as he slammed his tray of food down and smirked at the other boys sat before him. John glanced up for only a moment, taking his the sour-faced boy, before he stared down at his lonely grilled cheese and oddly shaped apple, trying his best to ignore the disgusting mouth of someone he unfortunately was forced to share his space with.

"Sebbo," James laughed and clapped him on the back, Mike and Sebastian Moran doing the same, whilst Greg seemed thoroughly caught up in something on his mobile.

"Guess who just scored in the library," Wilkes grinned wickedly, pointing his thumbs at himself and cackling under his breath, low and unsettling.

Lestrade lifted his head, eyes narrowed at the dark-haired boy and one brow arched in confusion, "What, is there some kind of sale going on?"

John smiled to himself, shaking his head and lifting apple to his lips. Gregory Lestrade - always sweet but terribly oblivious.

"No, wanker," Sebastian Wilkes snapped, his nose scrunching as though the very idea of books insulted his integrity, "as in Abigail Walker. You know, the slut with the pigtails?"

John closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply, and looking away, trying his best to remain cool, his chest practically swelling with red, hot rage as he listened to the cold, ignorantly arrogant voice of a boy he'd very much like to beat to a pulp.

"No bloody _way_ ," Sholto wheezed, face crinkling with amusement as he stared up at Wilkes, expression almost awed by his presence, "I've been trying to convince her since the start of the semester."

John put down his apple and swallowed thickly. _Were his ears steaming? Felt like it._

Mike Stamford shook his head at their conversation, leaning across the table and scoffing loudly, "What'd you do, Seb? Sway her with your good looks and charms?

Wilkes snickered and spread his arms wide in an audacious gesture, grinning wide and arching a dark eyebrow, "Obviously."

John stood up, grabbing his tray of food and school bag and leaving the table, heading directly for that special booth tucked away in the back of the cafeteria where a special someone sat arched over the same, tattered notebook he seemed to always be scribbling in. Within a few seconds, John was placing his school lunch down directly across from Sherlock Holmes, and sitting with a huff, removing his red backpack and shoving it on the floor beside him.

Unreadable, multi-colored eyes shot up to gaze widely at him, and that same notebook was once again thrown shut. Neither of them said a word as John quickly began eating his apple again, forcing down his irritation as to not scare Sherlock away, the boy currently watching John with a rather terrified and confused expression.

Swallowing, John smiled, as warm and as friendly as he could at the curly-haired boy, the bruise between his brow and eye practically taunting him, tingling his nerves with self-hate and pity, knowing deep down that one of the people he spent most of his school hours with put that mark right there, on those pale, innocent features. John inwardly shook his head - Molly was right. He was worrying too much; _why couldn't he just do it, say it, speak it out, loud and clear?_

"Do you want to hang out?"

John watched as Sherlock practically paled at the question, brows nearly disappearing behind that hairline of curls, and mouth opening just slightly as he narrowed his eyes.

"I," He began and them seemingly started to change his mind, shaking his head and pursing his lips, " _Sorry_?"

John shrugged, eager to keep himself together, and cleared his throat, "It's nearly the weekend. Most people do stuff on the weekend, ya know?" He took another bite of his apple.

Sherlock swallowed and looked down shyly at his closed notebook, a red tint blooming across his cheeks and somewhat boosting John's self-confidence - not to mention how adorable it was.

"I'm not _most people_."

John smiled widely and lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, "I know."

Sherlock glanced up with open eyes, the strange nature of their color swarming in both confusion and uncertainty before he inhaled sharply and shook his head, running a hand through his curls, "I can't."

John was most definitely on to the shy, anti-social boy, and he quickly smirked, "Why not?"

Sherlock blinked and noticeably swallowed, glancing away for a moment as if to think before turning back to John once more, "Chores, homework, other such plans."

John grinned, and watched as Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if the other boy couldn't see straight through his facade, as if he wasn't aware Sherlock was eager to dodge the bullet of socialization.

"So many excuses," John huffed playfully, eyeing the boy with a careful, gentle expression and observing as his entire face lifted in an amused smile, his eyes downcast as he realized he wasn't fooling anyone, and certainly not John.

"Maybe," Sherlock added and timidly glanced down at his hands, chewing on his bottom lip to hold back an even wider grin.

 _Plan B, then,_ John mused and grunted softly as he leaned forwards, placing his elbows on the table and looking directly at Sherlock's guarded features.

"Can I borrow your phone?" John asked, arching a brow and trying, desperately, to hold back his sneaky smirk.

"My _phone?"_

John nodded, "Left mine at home."

Sherlock arched a brow and then frowned, reaching into his pocket and handing over the mobile rather uneasily, clearing his throat and shyly refusing to meet John's eye, "Don't run away with it."

John was aware Sherlock probably didn't trust him, but he'd prove to him his intentions were purely innocent.

John carefully took the phone with a bob of his head and a smile and quickly started it up, following through with his ingenious plan, before handing the cell back and grinning openly, grabbing for his backpack and getting to his feet, leaving his tray but grabbing his half-eaten apple.

"Thanks," He beamed and watched as Sherlock gingerly took back the mobile, swallowing nervously and gazing at John with a rather desperate look, as though he was terribly confused and tired of it.

John readjusted his bag and cleared his throat, winking at Sherlock - unsure as to why, perhaps his confidence was simply in overload - and turning to leave, glancing over his shoulder as the bell rang and he began to walk towards the exit, "Talk to ya later, Sherlock."

 **...**

Sherlock swallowed, blinking down at the phone still in his hands, the students around him gathering up their belongings and heading towards their next classes, his heart beating far too rapidly against the confines of his ribcage. What had just happened?

Scoffing to himself, he glanced down at his mobile and tapped the screen, boosting it to life and revealing his text messages. There, before him, portrayed in glowing letters on his phone's screen, was the contact name John, and, within a conversation, one text sent from his own phone to what could only be a certain rugby captain's. A small, winking emoticon.

Sherlock looked up at the doors John had exited through and smiled wide, biting his inner cheek to keep from being noticed as he came to the realization of what John had done. Smirking, he leaned down to put his notebook away, only to hear his phone buzz against the lunch table. He zipped up his bag and stood, glancing down at the screen once more and narrowing his eyes.

 _Told you you'd talk to me later. ;)_

Sherlock blushed and rolled his eyes, tucking his phone away into his jeans' pocket and heading for his next class, hoping, deep deep down, that there was no double meaning to this, that John genuinely had wanted his number, had really truly wanted to spend time with him, and that he wouldn't turn out to be like everyone else.

 **...**

John shut his bedroom door behind him, smiling softly to himself as he put down his school bag and rugby gear and ran a hand through his sweat soaked hair. He went about his after-rugby-practice routine and headed for the bathroom he shared with Harry, locking the door behind him and turning the shower nozzle to hot, stripping down and quickly sliding past the curtain and under the spray of water. He'd gotten to boss around Wilkes and Sholto today, much to his utmost joy, and on top of it all, he'd been successful with Sherlock - well, somewhat successful. He'd sneakily managed to obtain the boy's phone number, but the part that worried him was whether or not Sherlock had even wanted it.

He ran his hands through his now soap clad hair, and sighed. He was acting like a lovesick schoolboy - which he wasn't, lovesick of course. Sure, he thought Sherlock was rather adorable, beautiful honestly, with those incandescent eyes and curls that swooped like melted chocolate, and the snowy white flawlessness of his skin, but - well, he wasn't gay.

John blinked and swallowed. _Hell_ , he was having trouble even convincing _himself_.

He finished up in the shower and quickly headed back to his room, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips as he approached his dresser, quickly changing into a pair of baggy sweatpants and choosing to remain shirtless.

He spent the rest of his night pondering, and worrying; thinking about Sherlock, about his mostly horrid friends, about new video ideas, about his channel in general - he brainstormed and considered new things and did every bit of it with theballetbee's compositions on shuffle. And when he got cozy under his bed covers, body exhausted and mind officially worn out, he saw a small message notification appear atop his mobile screen.

 _Good night, John. -SH_

John had never smiled so wide.

 _Good night, Sherlock._


	7. Wherefore Art Thou Romeo

**watsonmyface**

 **New Alerts:**

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…

When John pulled the old Toyota into school Friday morning, he could already spot Molly Hooper sprinting across the student parking lot and over to where John was gingerly aligning his car between the two, parallel lines. He watched as she waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands grasping the straps of her spotty pink backpack so hard her knuckles were beginning to turn white. Unable to help himself, John smiled, already aware of why she was standing so close to his car window, of why she was grinning from ear to ear, of why her cheeks were faintly red with exertion from jogging like a maniac passed crowds of loud people. She was in full fangirl-overload. And John certainly didn't blame her. _Theballetbee's_ newest video was iconic. Not even iconic, it was historical, it was revolutionary, it was like a brand new version, a brand new sound, of composition, of violin, of music and it had enraptured John liked pollen to a honeybee. It was instrumental with a beat, with an undertone of techno, a pinch of dubstep, a poke of melodic vocals, and a whole lot of genius. John couldn't begin to explain how very in love he was with whatever sound snuck out of the strings beneath the fingers of that stranger, that violinist with the blurred face.

But, as bewilderingly new as it was, it was also oddly coincidental. He couldn't shake the small clue, the small suspicion, that had wormed its way into the back of his mind, that somehow, in some way, the anonymous dancer had been there, on that very day John had leaned over and played his music for his friends.

 _Boring_ , Sholto had called it. _Antique_.

Deep down John was holding on to the idea that maybe, just maybe, the _Bee_ went to Baker, and maybe, just _maybe_ , he was in John's maths class. It was a silly thing really, and he had no real evidence or substantial reasoning behind it other than a short five minute exchange between his friends but why else would the musical genius suddenly change his style so drastically? Why would he alter who he was unless he was eager to prove wrong those who dissed him? Perhaps he was being far too hopeful - or far too selfish.

 _The world doesn't revolve around you, John,_ his mind shouted back at him.

A hand slamming onto the dirty window of the tattered Toyota jolted him back to life, and he looked up, coming face to face with an amused, yet utterly enthused, Molly Hooper, of whom was mouthing and yelling muffled, impatient words at him through the glass. He chuckled to himself and shut off the car's engine, grabbing for his backpack and opening the door, slipping out and locking the vehicle behind him. Almost instantly, arms were wrapping around his waist and a squeal was emanating, shrill and piercing, from the small girl tucked against his chest, clad in the same yellow dress she'd bought just a day ago, white sneakers and white socks to match.

John scoffed and wrapped his arms around her in response, smiling and chuckling as his best friend practically shook on her feet.

"You've seen it, I assume," Molly asked as she pulled away, grinning up at John and tucking the loose strands of chestnut brown hair back behind her ears.

John laughed loudly and readjusted his backpack before beginning the small walk to Baker's main hall, Molly trailing along beside him as he bobbed his head in confirmation, "Of course, I have."

The small girl giggled and spun in place, strolling backwards beside him for a minute before turning back around and squeaking to herself, squeezing her phone tightly where it rested in one of her hands, "Wasn't it incredible?"

John smiled down at his brown Oxford's and nodded, biting his lip and silently cursing the blush that tinted his cheeks, "Bloody unreal."

Molly swooped her arm around his, letting it hook at his elbow as they walked, sauntering softly to the school building, his timid friend no longer timid in such a moment, her eyes wide with excitement, brows lifted, cheeks crinkling in joy and utmost admiration.

"It was so different, it was so unique," She gasped, gesturing rapidly with her hands as she spoke, "I mean, Lindsey Sterling who? This plonker practically knocked the music industry onto their arses!"

John smirked at her words, "It was definitely something."

"It was more than that," She awed, "it was practically angelic!"

Beaming brightly, John couldn't help but agree with her words, no matter how overwhelmed she currently was or how dramatic she was being - it was, and there was no denying it, a performance to be reckoned with. John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he pondered the entirety of the situation, the ingenious new composition, his suspicions, his growing adoration for a masked man behind a screen.

"I think he goes here," John couldn't help himself from admitting, and he watched carefully as Molly stopped in her tracks, turning to face him with an arched brow.

She narrowed her eyes and laughed shortly, "What makes you think that?"

"I don't know, Molls," He swallowed and continued their walk to the main hall, pulling Molly along with him and smiling rather shyly, shrugging a single shoulder, "I had this conversation with my mates in maths."

Molly blinked, "And?"

"And they said he was boring; that his violin was antique and that classical music was music to go to sleep to."  
"Gits," Molly Hooper muttered, and John let out a laugh, nodding his head in agreement.

"You're telling me," He huffed and then shook his head, rerouting the conversation and continuing, "Anyway, now he comes with this? Something completely different, something utterly and completely opposite of the ordinary classical he always does?"

The small girl hummed to herself and bobbed her head to the side thoughtfully, loosening her grip a little on the poor mobile in her pale hand, "I suppose it is rather coincidental."

Sighing, John grabbed hold of the school's main doors, yanking one of them open by its handle and waiting for Molly to enter first before quickly following behind, head turning with his upside down thoughts, spinning and churning within his gut, desperate for answers. Why was he so determined to know? Why couldn't he just leave it alone?

"I mean, I've always considered it," Molly began as they both headed towards their lockers, "but I don't know, it seemed too surreal, you know?"

"Definitely," John grunted, turning to her over his shoulder and laughing softly, meandering over to the blue cabinet door and expertly entering his passcode, springing the lock into life as it opened, bearing his abhorrent number of books and excess, unnecessary items. Once he'd transferred over whatever he needed and didn't need, he slammed the door shut and lifted his backpack onto his back once more, approaching Molly of whom was still busy fumbling with her textbooks and notepads.

"Look," he began, smile apologetic, "its just a hunch, yeah? No going and getting our hopes up."

Molly turned and chuckled, grinning up at him gingerly, expression soft as usual and features curved upward in pure delight, "Of course, John. Doesn't mean I'm not going to investigate, though."

And with that, she winked and scurried away, a skip in her step and a wide grin on John's face as she departed.

* * *

The continuous slamming of a fist against his wooden door was what woke Sherlock up earlier than he would have liked on his Friday morning - considering he'd been up all night deciding whether or not he should hit the upload button on his new creation. Half delirious from lack of sleep, he stumbled out of his mundane, white bed sheets, groaning to himself and running a hand through his hair as he reached for the door handle, yanking the slab open to reveal Uncle Siger, looking irritated and wholly sleep deprived. _Hm_ , Sherlock thought, _so they have something in common_. The curly-haired genius braced himself and slowly arched a brow up at the man, of whom simply scoffed and gave the skinny boy a once over.

"You look like a bloody twig," He snapped, bearing his teeth in a wickedly, dreadful smirk, "what, you forget to eat or something?"

Sherlock swallowed and inwardly laughed at the question; he wasn't far off honestly.

"Anyway," his uncle started up again, uncaring as to what Sherlock had to say in response, lifting a hand and running it through his greasy mess of hair, its unkemptness matching the rest of his figure - clothes unwashed for what looked like several days, button down shirt smelling strongly of cigarettes and booze, "don't come home after school, yeah? Go to the park, or have a fake homework session with your fake mates again."

Shit. Another one of these days then.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, tone hoarse from lack of use, and he cleared his throat quickly, glancing down at the floor and away from his uncle as he awaited the answer to his question, only to instantly regret the decision as a hand slapped him upside the head, causing his ears to ring and his figure to turn uncomfortably.

"Why do you think, _smart arse_ ," His uncle spat, his hand still midway in the air, his eyes widened in irritation as he watched what he probably saw as his poor excuse of a nephew.

He whirled away from Sherlock, heading back towards the kitchen and leaving the dancer standing in his doorway, ear throbbing and fingers tremble in both rage and trepidation.

"I have some friends coming over," He heard Siger's voice call out from the other room, the clink of a glass signaling the telltale sign of a drink about to be poured, "and I don't need you embarrassing me."

Sherlock scoffed bitterly to himself, glaring at the floor and shaking his head. He supposed it made sense. Hell, if Sherlock were in his position, he'd want his uncle to leave too.

 _Oh well_ , Sherlock swallowed, shutting his eyes for a moment, _he'd just stay longer at the dance studio._

* * *

If literature were a person, John would stab them in their sleep.

It wasn't that he didn't find it interesting, or even important, it was simply that he found it entirely grating. Give him a math problem or a physics test any day, but literature?

He groaned to himself, staring begrudgingly at the copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ in his hands, his eyes practically drooping as he glared at the words - _thou, thy, thee_ \- whilst his teacher pointed at different students of whom offered to each play a role, reading stanza by stanza, taking turns as characters in the story. Molly, of course, was eager to read as Juliet, and she'd urged him from the desk beside his to " _pretty pretty please be Romeo_ " so that she wouldn't have to awkwardly flounce and swoon over some other random boy in the room - of course, he'd openly refused and she'd gotten stuck with Philip Anderson. Everyone in the class was seemingly eager to take part in the play and it had begun to worry John that he would be the only one not enthused about reading the tale of two idiotic lovers, but when he glanced over at Sherlock Holmes and took note of the hunched shoulders, the bored-to-death expression and how he'd hidden his phone behind his open book, John knew he wasn't alone.

And that's how he'd found himself doing the same, sneaking his phone out and behind his copy of the play just as Greg Lestrade was enthusiastically reading his lines as Tybalt.

 _Not a literature fan either?_

He sneakily risked looking over at Sherlock, watching and smiling to himself the minute he saw the curly-haired boy check his phone, admiring the small smirk that lifted at the corner of his pale, pink lips.

 _Literature, sure. Romeo and Juliet? Absolutely not. -SH_

John stifled a laugh and swallowed the amusement threatening to blow his cover. He carefully lifted his head from his mobile, his eyes searching for his teacher of whom merely sat at the front of the room, bobbing her head as the other students around him happily read their lines. He went back to tapping at his phone's on-screen keyboard.

 _Why not? Not a fan of dying for the one you love?_

John waited, feigning a studious look as he pretended to read along until his phone vibrated.

 _But that's the thing, isn't it? They didn't die for each other. They killed themselves out of pure selfishness and used the excuse that they simply couldn't live without one another. -SH_

John blinked down at the words on his screen before glancing up and over at Sherlock, of whom was blankly staring at the book in front of him, phone lying still against his desk. The rugby captain felt a small smirk tug at the side of his mouth, and he held back a chuckle at Sherlock's sudden in-depth diagnosis. When he turned back to his mobile, he caught Molly gazing at him with bright-eyed curiosity, a soft grin lining her features as she looked between John and Sherlock almost knowingly.

John felt his cheeks redden and he quickly went back to his text messages.

 _Some might say that's romantic._

 _Death by rat poison? Or death by dagger? -SH_

John forced back a snort.

 _Neither. I meant the whole "can't live without one another" thing._

 _Romantic? They're dead, why would it be even remotely romantic to them. -SH_

John swallowed and slowly, casually, looked around at the other students, taking note of the page they were on and quickly flipping his own copy to its rightful place, before going back to their stimulating conversation.

 _Good point. Ever seen the movie?_

 _Movie? -SH_

 _Yeah. Film, motion picture, feature, flick, cinematic?_

 _Hilarious. -SH_

John smiled.

 _No, I haven't. I wasn't aware there was one. -SH_

 _What, seriously? There's several._

 _I'm sure Shakespeare is very pleased with that turn of events. -SH_

John narrowed his eyes, smiling in confusion before gently typing a response.

 _You know he's dead, right?_

 _Of course I know he's dead. It was a joke. I was joking. -SH_

 _Right. Anyway, they make my sister cry like a baby._

 _Please specify whether or not she currently IS an infant. -SH_

John bit the insides of his cheeks to contain his desperately confined giggles.

 _You're gonna get me in trouble._

 _What? How? -SH_

 _I'll end up laughing and interrupting Anderson's praise-worthy Romeo._

 _Please do, he's positively awful. -SH_

This time John couldn't keep the small puff of air from leaving his cheeks and he froze, feeling a number of eyes gazing his way, and looking up to find his literature teacher glaring scornfully at him.

"Something you'd like to share with us, Mr. Watson?" Ms. Montgomery asked, all proper and posh, the wrinkles in her neck shaking like jello as she spoke.

John bit his lip and snuck a glance at Sherlock, of whom was watching him with a raised brow as if wondering the very same thing, pale expression positively glowing with victory at having made John outright giggle. Shrugging effortlessly, he turned back to the old woman at the front of the room and swallowed, "It's a funny play."

The other students around him snickered at his comment, Molly's eyes practically bulged from their sockets at his response, and Anderson's already sour face twisted into a look of bitter annoyance. Ms. Montgomery cleared her throat and frowned at him, uncaring towards his, what she believed to be, rebellious snark, "And what, pray tell John, do you find so funny about Shakespeare's famous _tragedy_?"

"Uh," John pursed his lips and looked to Molly for help, watching as she rolled her eyes and pointed at a stanza in the play, indicating their stopping point he'd ever so _rudely_ interrupted, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the words in his own copy.

 _ROMEO [to Juliet]: If I profane with my unworthiest hand_

 _This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:_

 _My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand_

 _To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss._

John shrugged again, "He compared his lips to pilgrims."

The class busted into a fit of giggles and sniggers and a sense of pride swarmed within John's chest, and he too cracked a smile at his statement, watching as Molly glared playfully at him and shook her head fondly, whilst his teacher merely cleared her throat once more and clapped to get the other students under control. "Right," She announced, "back to your books, come on. Philip, continue."

John leaned back in his seat, exhaling swiftly and shutting his eyes from a moment before feeling the small, routine buzz of his phone and glancing down at the screen, using his copy of the play as a shield yet again.

 _Good one. -SH_

He glanced up and over at the slender boy, sitting upright in his seat, attention fixated on the book in front of him, clad in yet another oversized, hooded sweatshirt and his usual adoration for black skinny jeans. Frankly, to John, he looked adorable, sitting there with his curls shaped as they usually were, with the exception of a loose ringlet resting against his forehead, contrasting effortlessly with the paleness of his flawless complexion. John swallowed the knot in his throat as his heart swelled with an overwhelming need to protect, to be gentle with the boy, to be nothing but honest and kind and sweet to the tall, thin figure he was so seemingly fond of, when he'd only known him for a mere short time.

He looked back down at his phone and began to type.

 _I'm no genius, but I did the best I could. :)_

 _It was satisfactory. -SH_

John smirked, remembering their last conversation in which Sherlock responded in such a way, and shook his head in amusement.

 _Am I just overall purely satisfactory?_

 _Of course not. I'm sure you're bad at some things. -SH_

 _I'm bad at scrapbooking._

He watched as Sherlock actually smiled at his reply, the brunette's plush lips rising at their edges before his nimble fingers went to work on a response.

 _Scrapbooking? -SH_

 _Yep. Fingers are too big to glue any little things down. My sister used to make a lot of them and always dragged me into it, but halfway through, after she realized I was only making it harder on her, she kicked me out of helping._

John smiled at the memory, recollecting how Harry had always made scrapbooks for Dad to take with him whenever he left for service - it was tradition for her. But then, of course, she'd come out as gay and Dad hadn't taken it too well. Whenever he was given leave to come home for a few days, she'd stay at Clara's, more than eager to stay away from the man. On more than one occasion, John would hear Harry mumble to herself about how glad she was that their "old man" was in the military. Mum was fine with it, the whole sexuality thing - hell, she was the one who told the both of them, " _love is love and there's no helping who your soulmate is_ ," and John was more than grateful for that. But John, himself, couldn't afford to be gay - or anything else for that matter. He just couldn't - his dad would forever look down on him as the worst son in history and his friends would torment him until the day he graduated. He'd seen how bad it was for Harry; he wasn't sure if he could ever face the threat of it.

Shaking his head, confused by his odd turn of thoughts, he took a deep breath and looked down at his mobile, having zoned out and completely missed Sherlock's response.

 _Not an infant then. -SH  
_

John grinned and shook his head.

 _No, not an infant._

 _You admire your sister. -SH_

Narrowing his eyes, John typed a reply.

 _What makes you think that?_

 _You've mentioned her twice already. -SH_

With a small smile, John looked up, flipping a couple pages to get back on track again, and then turned back to their textual conversation, having, quite certainly, the best literature class he'd had all semester.

 _Huh. Yeah, I guess I do._

 _Why? -SH_

 _She's tough. Brave._

 _Hm. -SH_

Maybe John would have to put her in one of his videos someday.

 _Any siblings?_

 _One, unfortunately. -SH_

 _Unfortunately?_

 _He's a fat, pain in my arse, though luckily for my quality of life, I don't see him often. -SH_

John bit the inside of his cheek in mirth.

 _Older brother then?_

 _Mm. -SH_

 _Why don't you see him often?_

 _He practically lives and breathes his career. -SH_

John chewed on his bottom lip, sympathy twisting in the back of his throat, even if Sherlock insisted he was nothing but a nuisance.

 _That sucks._

 _No, it really doesn't. -SH_

 _Aw, come on. You must miss him sometimes._

 _No, I really mustn't. -SH_

John licked his lips in thought, rather pleased to be learning so much about the closed-off and guarded Sherlock Holmes, praising his past self for sneakily obtaining Sherlock's phone number. Inhaling sharply, John slowly formulated a response, feeling obliged to offer a bit about himself in turn.

 _My dad's in the army._

 _I know. -SH_

John's head shot up and he turned to gaze at Sherlock, his body unmoving aside from his fingers still stumbling over the letters on his keyboard.

 _You said so in one of your videos. -SH_

John exhaled softly and smiled, nodding his head slowly and eagerly typing back to the boy.

 _You really pay attention._

If Sherlock blushed, John didn't notice.

 _Course I do. I told you I liked them. -SH_

 _I'll have a new one up by tonight._

 _I look forward to it. -SH_

John grinned.

* * *

Notifications for: _theballetbee_

 _36 new subscribers._

 _230 new likes._

 _3,000 views on_ Something New

* * *

Sherlock strolled to the dance studio with a smile on his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much, in a literature class of all places. But John had done that - John had been, well. John had been lovely. More than lovely, John had been kind, and sweet, and amusing, and _interested_. He had been _interested_ in _Sherlock_. He'd asked questions and enjoyed Sherlock's light conversation and he'd smiled and smirked and come up with an excuse for laughing in the middle of Anderson's Romeo monologue. And even more unexplainable - Sherlock hadn't gotten bored. In fact, he hadn't wanted to stop texting the blonde boy - he'd have texted John until the end of the period if he could have, but Montgomery's monotone bark had knocked them both from their conversation and forced them to work on writing a summary of what they'd read so far - due at the end of class.

And so it left Sherlock in a state of indecision, pushing open the doors to the studio and glancing at himself in the many mirrors, the urge to write out a small, superfluous message to the rugby team's captain tickling the ends of his fingers. He slowly placed his hand over his pocket, feeling the rim of his mobile and pondering quietly to himself, chewing on his bottom lip with uncertainty. No, he shouldn't bother John. But perhaps John _wanted_ to be bothered? Perhaps he was preparing to dress for rugby practice, bored out of his mind, waiting patiently for someone - anyone - to text him in a means of distraction. Sherlock blinked and rolled his eyes at his imagination, shaking his head with a scoff and kneeling down to dig through his ballet duffle, grabbing out his shoes, their attached pink ribbons trailing against the wooden dance floor. He paused in his movements, his tights half out of their pocket in his bag, and swallowed thickly.

But could he be?

Sat there on the bench in the boy's locker room, removing his flannel, warm and worn down from a long day of classes, revealing the expense of a pale stomach, lean and toned from year's of hard practice and rugby training…

Perhaps he was laughing, that bright, glowing reveal of white teeth, at a joke Mike yelled from across the room, or maybe he was keeping to himself, ignoring his friends cracking snide jokes at one another and insulting the lesser than them, whilst he dug further through his bag, pulling out his practice clothes and cleats…

And maybe he was grabbing the waistband of his jeans, reaching for the button and slowly popping them open, his hands beside his hips as he ever so slowly…

The vibration from his pocket sent him jolting upwards, flustered and blushing as he reached into his pocket and yanked out his mobile, swallowing the lump in his throat and inhaling sharply as he read the screen.

 ** _One new message from: John_**.

Ashamed of where his thoughts had been heading, he slowly clicked open the chat, stared down at the speech bubbles and bit his lip as he read.

 _Thanks for today in Lit, mate._

Sherlock smiled, looking down shyly and eagerly, much to his own embarrassment, wrote back a response, trying his best to remain calm and collected, cool and calculating.

 _Anything to drown out Anderson's infamous Romeo. -SH_

He imagined John's warm grin, his lips curving up in mirth as he stared down at his phone. At least, he hoped he was smiling. John deserved to smile - everyday, every second, every waking moment. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, blinking repeatedly - _where the bloody hell had that come from?_

 _If only I could text you during rugby practice to drown out Wilkes' BO_.

Sherlock stifled a chuckle and then looked up, recollecting that he was alone, incredibly alone, in an empty dance studio. He swallowed and bit his lip, his fingers moving against the keyboard swiftly.

 _Buy him some deodorant as a Christmas gift. -SH_

 _I don't think I'll survive that long._

Sherlock allowed himself a single giggle, before he sighed and clicked the button atop his phone to lock its screen, turning to place it gently into his duffle bag, only to hear and feel it vibrate one final time.

 _And besides._

 _The arse doesn't deserve any gifts._

Sherlock smiled sadly to himself and shook his head, moving instead to shove his phone away and grab for his tights, wearily wondering to himself, as he walked towards the studio's small bathroom to change, if John truly meant that.

* * *

"You got a new girl or something, mate?" Wilkes blurted out as John was busy packing away his school clothes and hoisting his backpack into his locker.

The captain froze and arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder rather unenthusiastically as he called out to Seb, a deep swell of unease forming in his gut, "What the hell are you on about?"

Sholto chuckled as he came around the corner, half dressed in loose shorts and his cleats and socks, eyeing John as he reached into his own bag to pull out an oddly colored workout tank, "Oh, look at the lad, he's getting defensive."

John slammed his locker shut and turned around to face them, glancing at Greg and Mike still pulling on their gear, before glaring at both James and Sebastian, the two practically sneering at him, "No, seriously. What are you talking about?"

"You, mate," Wilkes scoffed, grabbing for his water bottle and leaning against a row of lockers, arrogance laced into every curve of his figure, "smiling down at your phone all doe-eyed."

John rolled his eyes, shaking his head and grabbing the final things he'd need for the field, eager to remove himself from the conversation, nearly every eye beginning to fall upon him and his confused, yet guarded, stance, arms hanging limply as he cleared his throat, "I'm surprised you even know what doe-eyed means, Seb."

"Oi," Wilkes sniffed, "Course, I do. Now stop evading."

"Another big word for you," John murmured to himself as he gathered his things and began sauntering towards the locker room exit, mind whirling with agitation, only to be stopped in place as Sebastian Wilkes grabbed for his shoulder, squeezing it tight and letting out a sharp laugh.

"Details after practice, yeah?" He smirked, arching a brow questioningly before wiggling them in perversion.

John clenched his fists and put on a fake, far too forced smile, glancing over his shoulder at the bulbous, dark-haired brute, hair nearly black, a bit of stubble lining his chin, teeth white and practically snarling with glee, before swallowing and laughing bitterly, "No. Get your hard-on somewhere else."

And with that, he shrugged off Seb's hand and flung himself out the door.

* * *

Sherlock connected his phone to the studio stereo and quickly found what he was looking for - _Ballet of the Little Cafe_. This particular routine was to be reminiscent of his earlier videos, when he'd merely dance to wordless instrumentals, no words, no lyrics, no voices, simply mechanisms that brought forth timeless rhythms with the touch of a key, the deliverance of a note, or the pluck of a string.

He quickly clicked record on his camcorder, tapped the play button on his phone, and moved to the middle of the studio.

Piano.

Sherlock extended a leg, let his arms flow with grace, brought out poise from places it was least expected, made way for innocence and purity and a world devoid of horror and cruelty to match the soft sounds of joy woven into the start of the melody.

The Accordion singing alongside it.

Bend, flutter, sway, lean, slide, caress.

Dance.

More piano, more melancholy.

Brows tilted with sorrow, mouth curved downward, cheeks hollow.

Grace, poise.

Loneliness. Seclusion. Emotions and insecurities all tucked away in the gentle voice of expertly embraced instruments, wailing and crying about what makes them hurt, in the softest way possible.

* * *

John huffed as he stomped towards the rugby field, his mind ticking rapidly with thoughts on seemingly every little thing he had plaguing him in his life - his brain growled at Wilkes, hummed happily at the thought of talking to Sherlock again, groaned at the idea of playing rugby for two hours, and whirled with new evidence towards whom _theballetbee_ might be. It was all a lot to handle and, truly, he just needed a day to sort himself, and everything else, out. He shook his head and swallowed, reaching the rugby field and slowly stalking over to the benches, seemingly the first one out of the locker room in his hurry to flee from Wilkes. He sighed and sat down, putting down his things and looking up to spot Greg swaying over to him, one hand holding tightly to his water bottle, and the other twisting through his short, silver hair, dyed purposely that way a while back, its brown roots seeping through just a bit.

John smiled a light smile, constrained in his still irritated state, and let out a long sigh, scoffing as Greg arched a brow, his expression curious but not invasive.

"Wilkes pissed?" John asked, swallowing thickly as Greg sat beside him, leaning his elbows on his knees and hunching over.

"Nah," Lestrade scoffed, shrugging a shoulder and beaming at John, the upward curve of his mouth both comforting and warm, even in its small state, "he just thinks you're in a pissy mood."

John let out a sharp, annoyed laugh and nodded, glaring straight ahead and swallowing thickly, staring blankly at the dance department building as though willing it and the entire concept of dance to poof his troubles away.

"Do you though?" Greg asked, drawing John attention once more.

"Do I what?" John swallowed, blinking at his friend curiously before going back to observing the same brick structure off in the distance, spotting the dance instructor slowly making her way to the staff parking lot, dainty and timid in her floral dress, a small purse tucked up to her side - John hated always being one of the last few people on campus. Even the teachers went home before he did.

"Have someone?" Greg finished, watching John intently.

Glancing back over at the dance studio, blinds drawn across the windows, a small wooden door marking the entrance to the room, John hummed and let out a soft chuckle.

"No, mate," He sighed and shook his head, "you'd be the first to know if I did, alright?"

That seemed to please Greg and he nodded, leaning down to fiddle with his rugby shoes as John continued to watch, to observe, a moment of suspicion dawning upon him as he narrowed his eyes.

"Hey Greg?" He uttered, voice tilted with eager curiosity.

"Yeah?" His friend replied.

"Why are the lights in the studio still on if Ms. Hudson just left?"

Greg lifted his head to stare with John and shrugged, "Dunno. Maybe she forgot? I mean, she is _old_."

In an instant, John sprung to his feet and took off, calling over his shoulder a quick, "I'll be right back," before jogging agilely towards the building.

* * *

Sherlock slowed and landed on his feet, chest heaving with exhaustion, mind at ease, fingers trembling just slightly as he caught his breath, moving to run a swift hand through his sweat soaked curls.

With a sigh of relief, glad to have another dance crossed off his infamous list, he crossed the studio floor, detached his camcorder, folded up his tripod, snatched up his phone, and grabbed for his duffle, reaching down to pull out his discarded shirt, wiping across his bare chest and face, before putting his things away. He lifted the entire bag onto one pale shoulder and turned towards the back door, an _in-case-of-emergency_ exit that he really couldn't be bothered to use properly.

He was half way out, the cool air of the approaching winter tickling the skin under his thin black tights and chilling the line of his damp spine, when he heard the handle on the door to the studio's main entrance jiggle and click open, a figure rushing through as though in a frenzy, and within a second of realization, Sherlock was flying fully from the room, grasping at his duffle and sprinting into the halls, hearing footsteps thumping against the wooden dance floor behind him and into the corridor.

In a moment of pure panic, he ducked inside a janitor's closet, colliding with a dirty mop before spinning around and silently shutting the door behind him, holding his breath, body shaking with anxiousness. Slowly, bravely, he peeked through the small crease between the custodian closet's door and wall, watching and waiting only to gasp as a blonde rugby captain came into view, the boy's chest heaving with exertion, a look of pure excitement and determination brewing in the depths of his features.

 _Shit._

* * *

John grinned. He was right. _Theballetbee_ goes to Baker.


	8. Note

If you'd like to read the rest of this fic, please do so on AO3: Reach My Eyes.

I am having trouble uploading to this site. Thank you! x


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